


Dark Places

by chooken



Category: Westlife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Curses, Dark Magic, Dreams and Nightmares, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Forests, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Love at First Sight, M/M, Memory Charms, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mystery, Protection Magic, Rimming, Samhain, Secrets, Shapeshifting, Songwriting, Spells & Enchantments, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8474647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: After a painful breakup, Mark seeks solitude and reflection in a cottage in the hills.He may not be alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Anne, who wanted something for Halloween.

If Mark had been prone to melodramatics, he would have said that the house was an awful lot like him.

The door stuck stubbornly when he pushed it open, a creaky complaint coming from the hinges, and then he was inside, suitcase still in one hand, hesitating in the doorway. He peered inside, the grey sunlight throwing shadows and motes across the front room. Not a bad looking place, by all accounts, nor untidy. Kempt and plain, a well-ordered kitchen peering around the corner under the big window that traced the pointed eaves at one end.

It was cold, though. Bare stone floors and the feeling of a lonely draught, even though the windows were closed up tight, streaked with old raindrops and the milky grime of disuse. It badly needed some warmth, some light, especially out here in the hills, not a person for miles around to keep the beds turned and the fireplace lit.

He'd chosen to come. A self-inflicted solitude that made a nervous lump settle in his throat and the chil of icy fingers walk carefully up his spine. The suitcase went beside the door, and as he pulled it closed behind himself he felt the shadows close in, crawling the flagstones.

Within an hour there was a fire lit in the hearth, spilling light. There'd been a picture of the fireplace on the website, though the mantel had been clean of dust. The upstairs bedroom had been lit with soft candlelight, but when he'd gone upstairs it had been smaller and darker than he'd expected.

He supposed it was petulant to be disappointed. This was what he'd wanted. To get away from it all. To get away from...

His phone rang. He checked the screen and sighed, lifting it to his ear.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Kian sounded hesitant. Mark wondered why he'd called at all. “You get there okay?”

“I'm alive.”

“How's the place?”

“Kian...”

“I know. I know. Time apart.” Kian must have sensed his frustration. Mark supposed he couldn't really miss it, not after the last six months. “I just... thought I'd check.”

“I'm fine.”

“Cool.” Mark swallowed. He hated this. Feeling like an arsehole for not wanting to talk to his ex. Hated Kian a little for putting him in this position. “Well.”

“Well.” He leaned back, watching the flames crackle and splutter. “I'll see you.”

“I... yeah. Okay, well... I...” Love you. Mark knew he'd been about to say it. Force of habit. The silence stuttered between them for a moment, an awkward syncopation out of time with the steady breathing of the man on the other end of the line.

“Bye, Kian.”

Kian said goodbye. Mark hung up, tugging his jacket tighter as the sun sank behind the lake.

Once the fire was steady and able to be left unattended, Mark climbed to his feet. He'd arrived late, meant to do some poking around, but by the time he'd been unpacked it had been getting into a purple twilight and a rain had started to fall, heavy mist. He peered out the window, but all he could see was darkness and swirling fog, the moon a pale blot in a sickened sky.

It had been warmer in Dublin, early September still wallowing happily in light spring rain and sunny days. The skies had been clear and a cool breeze ruffling his hair as he'd packed the car for the last time and slammed the boot shut. Kian had been leaned against the door, his arms crossed.

“You sure?”

“About moving out?”

“No, about...” Kian had sighed. He'd been doing that a lot lately, both of them, mostly to fill the stony silences between them. Mark wished he could blame someone, say it was someone's fault, but there was no-one to blame. They'd fallen apart, somehow. After six years together it had just... crumbled. He loved Kian. But every moment spent sleeping side-by-side in the same bed, pecking kisses to his mouth out of courtesy, and hearing 'I love you' by rote was another creeping thorn in the tangled, dying briar of the relationship.

His mam had asked if he'd like to come home. His friends had offered a place to stay until he found his feet. They'd talked about still living together, he and Kian, had done for a while. He'd been sitting in their front room, clicking absently on his laptop, when he'd stumbled over the cottage.

It had just been one of those pop-up ads. Rent a place in the country, fully furnished. He'd found himself clicking through, thinking in the back of his mind that a place like that would be perfect for that songwriting he'd always meant to get to tomorrow. He had months of holidays saved up at work, and things weren't getting any better sitting around here. This might be what he needed. A reboot. Focus on himself and what he wanted to do, out of the way of everyone's well-meant advice and sympathy. Out of Kian's way.

He wanted to be selfish, for once. It was a giddy, guilty feeling he didn't know what to do with.

So he'd rented a cottage for three months. A smaller place, so it wouldn't feel so empty with just him in it, settled halfway up the hills and overlooking a lake, the local village about six miles away. He'd spent the last few weeks buying up all the music software he could, muddling over it and sure the man in the shop was trying to upsell him crap he didn't really need. Just him, and his laptop, and a microphone, looking for inspiration he hadn't been able to find in a terraced house in Dublin.

He was about to leave the window when he saw a light.

He blinked, then leaned closer to the glass, trying to see. A small, floating speck, hovering through the mist. It seemed to be moving, darting along where the edge of the water would be, leaving a glowing trail behind it.

It danced through the fog , drifted a little closer to the house, then disappeared.

Mark blinked, not sure what he'd seen. A reflection on the window, maybe, or someone mucking around near the water with a torch.

He went to sit by the fire, feeling suddenly very alone.

 

*

 

The place was prettier in the daytime. When Mark woke the next morning it was early, the sun barely risen and casting a pallid green wash across the sky. By eight he was up and in the shower, arguing with the unfamiliar taps to get the temperature right.

He'd brought some basic groceries, collected from the market at the closest village, so he sat down with a quick breakfast, reading through the news on his laptop while he absently dipped the corner of his toast into the yolk spilling out of his poached egg.

A quick tidy came next. Opening all the windows and letting the air in, giving the floors a sweep and the bedroom a vacuum. The bed had been comfortable, made easier by his own sheets and duvet, freshly washed before he'd packed them. They didn't smell of Kian any more. He didn't know if that was a good thing or not. There was a cellar out the back, he discovered after a little poking around, but the padlock was a large rusted thing and he didn't have the key.

Once he'd unpacked all the boxes from the car, made the place feel a little more at home, he ventured outside, looking out over the hills.

It was beautiful. Hadn't looked that way at night, misty and cold, but in the sunlight it was gorgeous. Green and postcard perfect, spring flowers speckled through the grass in yellows and pinks, honeybees and butterflies dancing through the small garden. He could see the silver ripple of the lake from here, peering through the small copses of trees that bled together at the bottom of the hill until they spilled into a thick patch of woodland that wove through the valley and away into the distance. He wondered if there was a path, though he supposed if he got lost the lake could always guide him back.

He wanted to get lost. Wanted it badly.

He made his way down, shoes slipping slightly on the incline, the grass damp from the night's rain. When he reached the bottom he could smell mud and water, the air thrumming and alive with insects and sunlight. He found himself under the trees, watching the metal flash of fish darting through murky water.

“Perfect,” he said to himself. There was no-one to answer. That was even more perfect.

There was a rock on the edge of the water. He sat, digging out his notebook. By the time the afternoon was closing in he had the beginnings of a song sketched out. It felt suddenly effortless. Nobody to interrupt, nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, just getting his thoughts in a row and marched down the page in neat lines. He crossed out a few words, added a few more, and then hesitated, trying to find a melody to put them to.

There was a rustle. He looked up, freezing.

Nothing.

He bent back over the notepad.

Leaves shifted again. Not far away. When he looked up some low-hanging foliage was swaying slightly. He watched, just in case there was a fox or a rabbit, but it appeared to be the breeze, drifting through a gap between the trees.

He started to hum. Then sing a little, trying to find the best fit for the words. The lyrics felt sad, but it felt like it should be fast and soaring, like finding wings after a fall. There was no-one to hear, so he let himself belt it out a little, laughing at himself and listening to his own voice echo off the trees. It sounded good, so he gathered himself up, wanting to get it down into the microphone before he forgot it.

It was almost dark when he finished. He realised he'd forgotten to eat lunch, was suddenly hungry, and headed to the kitchen, looking for something to eat.

He was just putting together a pasta, thinking he'd have to go into town for more supplies the next morning, when he saw a wisp of white light, dancing through the trees.

It was moving fast tonight. Definitely not someone with a torch. It was too quick, making jagged little streaks through the air as it zig-zagged around the edge of the forest. Some sort of insect, maybe, like a firefly, but he'd never heard of any of those living in Ireland. It zipped into the woods and disappeared. He stared for a long time, but it didn't come back.

He ate dinner in front of the fire, a movie playing on his laptop. There was an old TV, but the reception was terrible. After the film he went to do dishes, glancing out the window every now and then for a flash of light.

Afterwards he did a little more recording. It was getting late, and he never would have done this at home at this hour, not with the neighbours so close, and it took him a while before he was comfortable really going for it, sure that there wasn't anyone to annoy. He'd never learned how to play an instrument, had always had Kian to accompany him, but they'd never written well together. Too many conflicting ideas. Now he was letting go, belting into the microphone.

It was after two when he finally went to bed. It had been a good nights progress, and he dragged himself slowly up the stairs, tired and pleased with himself, wishing somehow that there was someone here to share it with.

 

*

 

The village was pretty. He hadn't seen much of it the first time, but this time he did a couple of loops of the main streets before finding a parking space. Not that big, but very quaint, nestled off the motorway, painted shops and cute stone houses with thatched roofs, the hills a rolling green shadow peeling away, his house on the other side.

He found his way to the market, a grocery store of middling size, the butcher and bakery attached. The cart was a little rickety, worse by the time it was filled, the dodgy wheel sliding under the weight.

“What can I do for ya?”

“Erm...” Mark peered through the glass, trying to decide. The man running the delicatessen was a cheerful guy about his age, thirty if he was a day, with sandy brown hair and lazy stubble. His nametag said _Bryan_. “Could I grab some of the leg ham, please?” Bryan nodded, and began to peel slices from the display.

“That do ya?” Mark nodded. He began to wrap it up in brown paper. “Not seen you here before.” He smiled. “Thought I knew everyone.”

“Oh... just moved in. I'm renting Cowslip Cottage.”

“Really?” Bryan looked a little surprised as he handed the parcel over. “Been there long?”

“Two nights. Hardly unpacked yet.” He dropped the parcel into the trolley. “Bit of a fixer upper. Seems like nobody's been there in a while.”

“No, well... no.” He let out an odd little laugh. “Not since old Maggie lived there. Near on a hundred years, apparently. I took out groceries a few times, and she had to be close to that. Nice lady.”

“How long ago did she...?”

“Oh... couple years back. No family, so far as I know. Man went out to check the power meter and found her. Peaceful, apparently, just sitting on the porch swing, looking out over the lake. Smile on her face and all. Worse ways to go, I suppose.” He must have seen Mark's face, because he laughed. “Sorry, you're going to think it's haunted now.”

“It's fine.” He forced a laugh as well. It was probably a little bit creepy, but it wasn't like he believed in ghosts or any mad stuff like that. Still... “Actually, I did see something weird. There was this little light, running along the edge of the lake. Looked like a firefly or something, but bigger.”

He waited for Bryan to reply, but when he looked up he was getting a strange look.

“You've seen the wisps?”

“Wisps?” Mark raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Just...” He sighed. “Maggie used to talk about them sometimes. She was dotty by the end, in fairness. My dad used to say she'd always been a bit weird, though. Seeing the fair folk, leaving out bowls of milk and bread for 'em. Even my nan said she was always talking to herself, carrying on conversations with people who weren't there...” He trailed off. “Guess they'd call it schizophrenia or something now, but she used to say she could see them dancing down by the water, little lights, just as the sun was going down.”

Mark laughed. faeries? Really? This lad was having him on.

“Funny,” he snorted. “Is that what you always tell the new people? That there's elves or something in the woods?”

“Not... elves.” He was actually looking a little worried now. “And we don't say their names. Can't say I believe in them, exactly, but...” He shrugged. “Bit like not playing with spirit boards, just in case.”

Mark shook his head. This was ridiculous. Next thing they'd be telling him it was UFOs, come to pull him up on a tractor beam and stick probes in him. He hoped they knew about lubrication. “Well, if I see any faeries, I'll let you know.” He took the packets from the man's hand, and thought he saw a slight flinch when he said the word.

“Easier to call them the fair folk,” Bryan suggested.

“Why, is leprechaun a slur or something?” Mark chuckled. “Well... thanks.” He put the parcels into the trolley, still smirking to himself.

He said goodbye and headed off to the front counter to pay, then pushed out the front doors. When he glanced over his shoulder, Bryan was still staring at him from the delicatessen, a quizzical little frown on his face.

 

*****

 

Though he never would have admitted it to himself, it was a little creepy sleeping in the house that night. It had been quiet before, but now there was movement in the silence. Creaks and rustles he hadn't noticed before, the low moan of wind down the chimney.

It was silly, really. He'd never believed in ghosts. Still, when he went to bed it was with a last suspicious glance at the porch swing, then a laugh at how ridiculous he was being. He made sure the door was locked before he went upstairs to bed, clicking off lights as he went.

He didn't see the lights again, not for a few evenings. His parents called to see how he was, and he let them know he was doing very well, having a relaxing time, and maybe they could come visit in a couple of weeks once he was settled in, maybe stay the weekend. He could always sleep on the sofa, he supposed.

Writing stalled. His sudden flurry of inspiration seemed to have abated, and he spent the next two days picking over what he'd already done, clicking in frustration and not able to make anything sound right. He was starting to get sick of his own voice, and on the fifth night he went to sit out the back, settling on the porch swing like he had a point to prove, watching the sun set over the lake.

It was just after six when fingers of dying light crawled away from the water for the last time, and he shivered as he felt a slight breeze. He began to hum to himself, more for company than anything, and within twenty minutes he realised he had a new tune shaping itself on his tongue. He kept humming it, climbing quickly up and ducking inside, trying to keep it going while he switched his laptop on.

He was just hooking up the microphone when he saw a flicker of light against the windowpane.

He paused. A trick of the light, maybe. He had the lamp on in the living room; perhaps it had just reflected off the glass.

He was singing into the microphone a few minutes later, just filling the melody in with nonsense words, when he saw it again.

His footsteps were careful as he crept to the window. It was close, this time, and he tried to see, wondered if it was a kid with a sparkler or something, maybe some locals having a laugh at the new guy's expense. When he looked out the window, though, there was nothing, just darkness staring back at him, the shadows of flowers and shrubs spilling onto the grass in the square of lamplight.

“Seeing things,” he muttered to himself, and was about to turn away, when...

It zipped past so quickly it was a streak. He let out a soft shout of surprise, jerking back, then leaned forward just as quickly, forehead pressing to the glass as it whipped away, disappearing into a clump of shrubs halfway down the hill.

“Hey...” he said uselessly. He could still see it, dancing slightly, and tried not to move, sure he was about to scare it off. It hopped twice, then settled, a white speck shivering behind the tattered brush. A wisp. That was what Bryan had said. He sank away from the window slowly, reaching for the jacket he'd tossed over the kitchen chair when he'd come in earlier. He kept his eye on it, toeing on his sneakers and beginning to make his way to the back door.

It darted away.

“Shit,” he muttered. Gone, apparently. He headed towards the lake, curiosity itching at him. Less than a week in, and he'd already seen it three times, would go mad if it went on for the whole three months.

It only took a few minutes to reach the water. It was darker here, the trees blotting out the moon. He began to hum absently, a nervous little tune to keep himself company.

Saw a dull shimmer on the other side of the lake.

He looked away on purpose, trying not to let on that it had been seen. After all, if he was doing something as ridiculous as waging a battle of wills with a floating speck of light, he might as well do it properly. He wondered if maybe he was having a stroke. You were supposed to see weird things when you were having a stroke, weren't you?

It flickered away.

He began to hum again, saw the shimmer rise to a shine. Like a star, though it was a cold sparkle, white and piercing, fluttering in the trees. Pulsing to the rhythm of his voice, he realised a few moments later. He ran a scale, just to see what would happen, saw it give a little hop, then dip when he went low.

He laughed, to himself or at himself, he wasn't sure.

This was insane.

“...I used to rule the world... seas would rise when I gave the word...” He began to sing softly, wasn't sure where Coldplay had come from, except it had been stuck in his head for a week a few months before. The wisp drifted closer, and Mark laughed as it skimmed across the water, looking oddly joyous, then hesitated when he stopped.

“...now in the morning I sleep alone... sweep the streets I used to walk...”

He couldn't remember all the words, managed to fill in some of the gaps with gibberish, but by the time he reached the first chorus the light was skipping, playing along the water like it was the spot bouncing above words on a karaoke screen. The water didn't ripple, barely seemed to know he was there, although he did see the shadows of a few fish, fleeing from the dance of it.

He finished. Couldn't find the words of something else to sing next. It was awfully close, had drifted in almost absently, and was now settled about twenty feet away, hovering over the water, a twinkling spark with a core of pure silver.

“I...” He took half a step, saw it freeze, then it was gone, darting into the trees like it had been snapped from a slingshot, nothing left but a white-cold blur on the back of Mark's eyes.

He waited. And waited.

It was late when he climbed the hill again and let himself into the house. It was warm in here, and bright, and for a moment it all seemed unreal. A vivid dream. He looked out the window again, but the lake was dark, stained into the shadows beneath the trees.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, again.” Bryan smiled when he sidled up. Mark hadn't really needed groceries, but here he was anyway. The market had barely opened and he'd already been waiting outside, biting his nails and feeling completely stupid. He felt his cheeks flush, and got a knowing grin. “More ham?”

“Er...” Mark peered into the cabinet, trying to at least look casual. “Some of the goat's cheese?”

“Coming up.” Bryan grabbed the tongs. Mark hesitated, sure he was going to sound completely stupid, but Bryan beat him to it. “Saw the wisp again?”

“No. What? No.” He forced a laugh. Bryan raised an eyebrow. “Erm...” He took the container once Bryan had tacked a sticker to the lid. “The... lady who used to live there...”

“Maggie.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “So... she saw it, did she? The wisp thing?”

“Saw a lot of things.” Bryan cleared his throat. “Not the only one, I guess. It's always been a bit of a local legend. Fair folk in the hills. In the woods and that. You hear sometimes of tourists getting lost, seeing a light and thinking it's a lamp, then suddenly they're off the road and into a ditch. Not mean, as such, just pulling pranks. Amusing themselves, you know?”

“That doesn't sound funny.”

“Bit like toddlers. Think it's hilarious tearing wings off flies or pulling the cat's tail, just because they don't know any better. No... you know, empathy. There used to be stories about them leading people away, kids just up and vanishing, going back hundreds of years. All the houses have iron locks on 'em round here. Tradition. Little terrors can't abide iron, apparently.”

“People think they're real?”

“Superstition, more like.” Bryan shrugged. “The woods are thick, and kids wander off. You get turned around in there, it could be days until you find your way out, and so it's easier to say the folk took them than thinking about them starving to death or drowning in the lough. Same with anything. If your chair breaks under you or the milk turns sour, people say it's the sprites, playing tricks.”

“So...” He was about to say 'faeries', but then he remembered. Wasn't sure why he was playing along, except it seemed the right thing to do. “So the... fair folk, then.” Bryan gave an approving nod. “Maggie saw them?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she was just weird. Still...” Bryan glanced around, then leaned a little closer. “I was at hers once, you know? Just dropping off some groceries. She asked if I could check her water heater. I'd do that, sometimes. Help out? She was a bit fragile and couldn't do it herself. Anyway, I'm in the hall when I hear this crash, so I called out, asking if she was alright, and when she didn't reply I headed out. And there she is, still sitting on the sofa as happy as you please, a cuppa in her hand.”

“What was the noise, then?”

“She said she hadn't heard anything. Except I looked over and there's a dustpan in the corner, all the bits of a broken mug in the tray. She couldn't have cleaned it up, couldn't have gone over, bent down fast enough to do it, and then got to the sofa by the time I came out. There was no way.”

“Maybe it was already there? Maybe it broke before you got there, and she hadn't binned it yet?”

“I thought that,” Bryan agreed. “Thought I'd missed it on the way in or something. Then I looked at her, and she's giving me this smile, this cheeky little thing like she's waiting for me to say something. Then when I went back to the heater I was sure I heard her whispering to someone, and it definitely wasn't me. When I got back out it was gone, and there was a mug sitting on the counter. Same damn one, I'd swear it.”

Mark shook himself, realised he'd been stood frozen. He wondered if he should laugh, but Bryan was looking at him earnestly, not even a smile dancing in his eyes.

“Creepy.”

“Yeah.” Bryan pulled back slightly. “I never told anyone that,” he admitted. “Two weeks later I heard she'd passed on. Haven't been back since.”

“Do you think they...?”

“Took her?” Bryan shook his head. “No. Not like that, anyway. If she went with them, it was because she wanted to go.” He looked down into the cabinet, and Mark noticed he was a little pale, and not just because of the flourescent lights. “So... yeah.”

There didn't appear to be much else to say. Mark thanked him, took his container of cheese, and headed to the checkout, feeling like there were fingertips creeping up his spine.

 

*

 

He felt like an idiot doing this. It was mid-afternoon, his lunch heavy in his stomach, and he quite felt like a nap, especially after tramping around the lake so late the night before. Still, curiosity was a leash, tugging him inexorably forward, and when he sat down at the laptop it was too late to stop.

Wikipedia seemed a good place to start. But before long he found himself going further and further into odd websites, many of which seemed to have been created by middle-aged women with too many cats and an apparent reliance on sparkly gifs. Still, there were common threads through all of them, about who the fae were, and how best to impress or repel them.

It was half an hour later when he found the first article that mentioned the village.

Two children missing, taken from their yard. Back in the 'thirties, two smiling faces sketched in black and white, a boy of two and his older sister. Police had interviewed a drifter that had come into the area, but found no evidence that he was involved.

1944, a boy of five found drowned in the lake.

A little girl, the early 'fifties. Her parents said she'd been talking to someone that wasn't there, said her new friend wanted to show her the flowers in the forest. She'd not been found.

Another girl at the turn of the century, returned from the forest a year after she'd gone missing, entirely fine and well-fed. She'd taken sick three days later and died of an unidentified illness.

The stories trickled back. A farmer's stable had burned down, built on a faerie ring despite his wife's protestations that it was bad luck. Mark had seen enough faerie rings when he'd been a child, circles of mushrooms that would shoot up after the rain. His nana had told him never to walk into one, in case he was snatched up, but then she'd also thrown salt over her shoulder after spilling and warned him not to put new shoes on the table. It was just superstition.

A whole coop of chickens, found dead. The farmer had heard an awful shrieking howl during the night, said eggs had been missing for weeks, so he'd put a padlock on the door. It wasn't a fox – there were no marks on the birds – they were just dead in the closed henhouse, still sitting on their roosts.

Mark glanced nervously through the window at the porch swing, which was swaying slightly in the breeze.

A widow on the verge of losing her home had found a bundle of ancient gold coins on her doorstep.

Three travellers who had gotten lost in the marsh had found their way to the inn, talking about a beautiful white lady who had led them back in exchange for a song.

A great tree sprouted overnight on the grave of an old man who had passed away.

A farmer who had taken ill and hadn't been able to bring in the crop before the cold snaps. One morning it had been harvested and stored in the barn, a neat red ribbon knotted to each bundle of corn. His wife said she had begged the fair folk for help, had left a bowl of wine and a knot of bread, the last of their food, on the doorstep. She'd left the same out once a week until she'd died thirty years later.

A little old lady who had to be over a hundred, laughing gently when a journalist asked if she'd heard the legends of faeries in the hills.

Mark found himself smiling. She looked like a cracker. Impossibly wrinkled, a knowing grin peeking out from eyes that should have been dulled with age.

He glanced out the window again.

It was probably silly. Superstition.

There were no such things as faeries.

 

*

 

He woke from a restless nap just as night was falling. He was dazed for a moment, caught in the groggy drift between awake and asleep, and he staggered carefully down the stairs, wiping his eyes.

It was raining, a misty spatter, and he stepped outside to feel it, crisp and clean on his skin. It was a warmish night, a slight breeze skating through the porch, and he stretched, feeling it clear his head. He'd build a fire in a little while, maybe, but for now he was content here, the light trickling away from the world, the first lonely stars peering through the twilight.

There was no sign of the wisp. After an hour he went back inside to make dinner, glancing at the laptop. Nonsense, probably, folk tales. Still...

There was milk in the fridge. He poured a little into a saucer, feeling ridiculous already. Even more silly when he took a piece of fresh bread and settled it into the trough, watching it swell as it soaked up the milk. It went on the doorstep. He shut the door slowly, peering out until the last, not sure what he expected to happen.

He was nodding off in the warmth of dying embers when he saw a dash of light spill under the door.

He was on his feet in a moment. Wanted to run towards it, but knew he could never catch up if it fled. He crept towards the door instead, watching the glow shift.

A floorboard creaked. He saw it freeze.

He floundered for a moment, not sure what to do, when...

“Uptown girl...” He felt his face flush with embarrassment. Probably a terrible choice of song, but it had shot into his head, and couldn't be put back now. “She's been living in her uptown world... I bet she never had a back-street guy... I bet her mama never told her why...”

He reached for the doorknob carefully, twisting.

There was a clatter.

The saucer was overturned. He flipped it over with his toe. Empty, a trickle of milk on the stone step.

He sighed, and slumped down on the porch swing, eyes scanning the woods. It was swinging slightly in the breeze. The chains rattled a little under his weight, and he rested his chin in his hands. It felt like there was a storm coming, suddenly. Something electric and strange in the air. He felt himself shiver, though it wasn't cold. The porch light gave a little flicker.

It whipped past him, suddenly, a streak of silver.

“Hey...” It was darting down the hill. He gave chase, feet slipping on the wet grass. He skidded, fell, and was up again, knees smarting as it fled into the trees.

The woods were dark, the moon barely sidling through the thick canopy. He could see the wisp, see it dancing. It seemed almost to be waiting for him, drifting ahead and then pausing, always staying just within sight, just out of reach. The lake disappeared behind him as he edged down the path, trying not to trip in the dark.

“And when she knows what she wants from her ti-i-ime...” He swallowed, saw it hesitate. He was out of breath, a little, the words trembling as they came out. Or maybe that was fear, likely as he was wandering through unfamiliar woods at night. “And when she wakes up, and makes up her mi-i-ind...”

He swore he heard a laugh. He froze. Tinkling in the dark, a high, hoarse giggle.

“Hello?”

He turned, realised he'd looked away from the wisp.

It wasn't there.

He shook his head, meaning to move back down the path.

The path was gone too.

He swore, turning. He couldn't remember which direction he'd come from, had spun around when he'd heard the laugh. This way, maybe. Or that way. The trees all looked the same. He listened for the babble of water, but instead there was just the wind through the leaves.

He'd not come that far. Five minutes, maybe. The edge of the woods had to be close. He craned his neck, looking for the rising slope of the hills, but the trees were too tall, masking the sky.

He picked a direction, began to walk. It was eerie. The quiet roared in his ears, the drone of life creeping along beneath the silence. The trees got denser as he slid between them, walls closing in. And he'd left his damn phone on the kitchen table, had dashed out without thinking, drawn by curiosity.

“Hello?” he called. Didn't know who he was calling. The wisp, maybe. “Is anyone...?” A knot of panic crouched in his gut.

He began to sing again. Scanned the trees, looking for silver light. Turned back the other way, sure this was wrong, that the trees hadn't been this close together.

It felt like hours, his throat sore from singing, when the trees broke. A small clearing, no larger than his living room. He was three steps in when he saw the mushrooms. A ring, slotted into the spaces between the trees.

He heard the laugh again, backed away. Nursery rhymes and fairytales. He'd gone to scouts as a kid, just needed to figure out which way was north. It was all simple and sensible, and...

He wondered how long it would take someone to realise he was missing.

He wondered if they'd ever find his body.

The circle fell behind him as he shoved back through the trees.

 

*

 

He needed to stop panicking. Really needed to stop panicking. It was early in the morning. He'd been walking for hours, wasn't sure if it was in circles, or if he was going further into the woods, but regardless it was the wrong direction. Had to be, or he'd be home by now, curled up in bed.

His feet hurt. He wanted to cry. There were scrapes on his arms from branches, and he'd sung every song he could think of, some twice. He was thirsty from singing, his throat raw.

It was going to be okay. It would be light in a few hours, and he could try again. It would be easier in the daytime. He could follow the sun, let it lead him home. It was all going to be okay.

A broken sob hiccuped out. He covered his mouth, trying to force it back in, knew it would just be the start if he let himself.

The trees broke. He felt a swell of relief.

Mushrooms. Spotted grey, ringing the clearing. No. It couldn't be...

He backed away. There was a rustle from his right, the crack of a branch.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” He almost jumped out of his skin. When he turned around there was a man stood on the other side of the clearing. A boy. It was hard to tell his age, his face caught in the moonlight. Mark swallowed, careful not to tread past any of the mushrooms as he edged closer.

“Oh, thank god.” A nervous laugh tittered out of his chest. He saw a lopsided smile, pale blonde hair cut short and impish. The man had stepped into the circle. He was beautiful, slender and pale, eyes sparkling blue, dressed in cotton trousers and a loose open-necked shirt, too light for the weather. “I've been walking for hours. I got lost, and...” The stranger tilted his head, studying him.

“I heard you singing.”

“Oh...” Mark shook his head, smirking. “Yeah. Sorry. I just...” He glanced around. The stranger was standing in the circle, looked completely oblivious to it. “Keeping myself company, you know? Are you camping, or?”

“I live nearby.”

“We're close to the edge, then?”

“Sort of.” He laughed softly, then reached out a hand. “Come with me. I'll show you.”

“Yeah.” Mark looked warily at the mushrooms. “Which way, then?”

“This way.” A hand beckoned. Mark nodded.

“Okay, I'll just...” He backed away slightly, then started to work his way around the clearing, ducking through the trees. Maybe it was silly, but after the night he'd had he wasn't taking any chances. When he reached the other side there was a smirk on pouting lips. He smiled back. “Sorry, better safe.” The stranger shook his head, laughing. “Thanks for this. I was starting to panic. What's your name?”

“Guess.”

“I wouldn't have a clue,” Mark chuckled. “I'm Mark. I'm renting... do you know Cowslip Cottage?” A fair head tipped in a nod. “I moved in this week.”

“Maggie's house.” A frown drifted across a perfect face. “She used to call me Nicky.”

“That's your name?” Nicky nodded. “You knew her?”

“Yes.” Nicky hesitated, then began to walk into the trees. Mark followed, scurrying to keep up. “She used to invite me in. I'd help.”

“With chores and things?”

“Yes.” His eyes softened. He really was beautiful. Mark's type. Looked around his age, but kept well, something cheeky in the crooked pout his lips fell into. Nicky hopped over a fallen log, almost effortless, stepping up and then down the other side. Mark struggled for a moment, trying to clamber over, and a hand reached out. He took it, felt it warm and soft in his.

“Thanks.” His feet slid slightly in the soft earth, and Nicky kept his grip until he was able to steady himself. “I heard she used to talk to...” He hesitated, remembering what Bryan had said about their names. “The fair folk? Is that what you call them?”

“Some people do.”

“What do you call them?”

“I don't.” He edged around a large oak, waiting for Mark to catch up.

“You don't believe in them?”

“You don't need to believe in something for it to be real.” They began to walk again. Already Mark could see the spaces between the trees widening, feel a worn path under his feet. He didn't know how he'd missed it before. “I don't believe in you, and here you are.”

“You don't believe in me?” Mark blinked. “I'm not sure if I'm offended or not.”

“Do you believe in the sun?” Nicky shrugged. “Do you believe in the stars, or the grass, or the lake?” He smiled. “Knowing something is different from believing in something. If something is, it is. The sky doesn't disappear because you stop believing in it.”

“I guess so.” Mark nodded. “So... are they real?”

“Are they?”

“I... don't know.” He looked at Nicky. “Yesterday I would have said no, but...” But even if they weren't, he'd still stepped around the faerie ring, rather than go in. The trees broke just as the dawn did. The lake. He couldn't believe it. No wonder so many people went missing. It had been a maze in there.

“Thank you,” he sighed. Nicky chuckled next to him. “Really. I...” He could see the moon now, see the lamplight from his cottage, a square glow up the hill, dulling in the first glow of dusk. “Do you want to come up to the house? I can put on a pot of tea or something. Say thank you. Or I can give you a lift back to your place...”

“I'll find my own way.” A hand touched his. It was warm. Mark turned his own hand, felt their fingers curl together for a moment, a surprised thrill running up his arm when Nicky squeezed gently. “Be careful.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes studying the darkness, and Mark was sure for a moment that he'd seen something. A shiver tripped down his spine. When Nicky looked back, his eyes looked too pale in the starlight. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” The hand slid from his. “Thank you.”

Nicky nodded, and slipped into the trees.

 

*

 

“You're having a good time, then?”

Mark agreed that he was. He'd called Kian this time around, surprised even himself when he'd picked up the phone and dialled his number. He'd woken in an odd mood, still shaken from the night before, but something almost like euphoria zinging through his veins. Maybe it was leftover adrenaline, but he felt fantastic, had been writing music for hours, almost possessed.

Then he'd thought of Kian. Thought of never seeing him again, of dying in the woods, having left it on such awkward terms. Within a minute he'd had the phone to his ear, listening to Kian say hello.

“How have you been?”

“Yeah, I'm...” Kian paused. “I was going to say 'good', but that's not really true. I'm getting along, I guess. Maybe I'm still adjusting, or...” He sighed. “I don't know. It's weird you not being here, even if we're not together. I bought a Halloween costume yesterday. Like, by myself.” Mark nodded. They always did a couples costume, arguing over what theme to go with. He didn't even know if he was going to dress up this year, couldn't see trick or treaters wandering all the way out to a cottage miles from anywhere.

“Mario and Luigi was still our best.”

“No, definitely Bert and Ernie.”

“Oh, yeah...” He laughed. That had been a classic, the year after they'd started dating. “What did you get, then?”

“Basic vampire. It was on sale.”

They talked for a few more minutes. Kian seemed to be doing fine, sounded a little lost. Mark could relate. Still, Kian's life probably hadn't been quite as exciting as Mark's had been the last few days.

He got some more recording done. As it was getting dark he tipped some more milk in a bowl, setting it out on the step with a piece of bread. He didn't know what he expected, didn't really know if he wanted to invite anything after last night, but he supposed it couldn't hurt to have whatever it was on his side.

He sat in front of the fire, a book on his knee. When he saw the wisp, he didn't move. Waited. After a few minutes there was a clatter. He brought the saucer back inside, tipping a friendly wave when he saw a dancing light hovering near the drive.

The next night was more of the same. He tipped some beer into the trough this time, left an apple beside it. When he went to collect it there was nothing but a bare core sitting in the dry saucer, the light nowhere to be found.

On the third night he left a cup of wine and a chocolate brownie, then went down to the lake to watch.

He didn't have to wait long. It had just gone dark when a light drifted out of the woods and up to the house. It floated over the doorstep, waiting, then sidled up to peer in the windows. Mark held his breath.

It darted away.

“Hello.”

He jumped, let out a yelp of surprise. When he looked around it was Nicky, leaned against a tree, his arms crossed.

“Jesus...” He laughed. “Scared the shit out of me.” Nicky snorted, not looking apologetic at all. He nodded up at the house.

“You shouldn't try to trick them,” he said. “What were you planning on doing?”

“I... don't know.” His cheeks went guiltily hot, though he hoped Nicky couldn't see his blush in the dark. “I just wanted to see.”

“They won't trust you if you do things like that.” Nicky took a step closer.

“You've seen them?” Nicky didn't reply. “What should I do, then? I left out food, and...”

“You left a gift,” Nicky interrupted, his eyes accusing. “Every gift gets a gift in return. If the gift is lies, you won't like what you get back.” Mark swallowed.

“How do you know?”

Nicky shook his head

“You want to come in?” he suggested. “I was about to make dinner.”

“No.” Nicky glanced up at the house. “I have to go.” He sidled back into the trees.

“Goodnight,” Mark said.

But Nicky was already gone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Bryan exhaled slowly, a drift of cigarette smoke curling away from his pursed lips. Mark had come in to get some groceries, seen him at the counter, and been asked how things were going with his wisp. Suddenly it had started to spill out, Bryan looking nonplussed while a queue backed up at the deli. Bryan had called on one of the other lads, tugged off his apron, and said he was taking his break, and now they were stood at the loading dock, Bryan sucking furiously on his second cigarette.

“You've seen them almost every night, then?”

“Them. Or... it.” He shrugged. “I think it's the same one, honestly. Something about it...” He'd not mentioned Nicky, really, had just said that he'd been found by a local and led out.

“You'll want to be careful, following things like that.”

“I know that now,” he joked. A tense smirk tweaked at Bryan's mouth. “I don't know, though. I never got the feeling it wanted to hurt me. It just felt...” He tried to find the words. For the sharp panic he'd felt, muddling through the dark, the menacing circle of mushrooms that had almost seemed to call him closer. He didn't know how to explain it, even to himself. “It was probably my fault for chasing it.”

“It wanted you to follow, though.”

“Yeah.” It had. He'd seen it move; it could have been gone in a blink if it had chosen, but instead it had waited, goading him on. “I lost it. Maybe it was trying to lead me somewhere else.”

“Maybe.” Bryan didn't look convinced. Mark wasn't either.

“I left out food.”

“Did it take it?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Fuck, I'm crazy, aren't I?” Bryan laughed.

“I have no idea. Still, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened around here.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “What are you trying to do, exactly?”

“I don't know,” Mark admitted. “I've never seen anything like it. Maybe I just feel like it would be silly to ignore it, even if it turns out to be something completely normal. It'd be like if I got home and found a leprechaun on my kitchen table and pretended it wasn't there for three months. I just...” He sighed. “I don't know,” he said again. “Should I like... try to talk to it?”

“I don't think it works like that.” Bryan shrugged. “They're not your friends or... or pets or anything. My nan always said they were a bit like cats. One might take a fancy to you, but you'll never be its master, not really, and it'll claw you as soon as purr if you rub it the wrong way.”

“Your nan knew a lot about them?”

“Most people did, back then. Or thought they did.”

“Could I talk to her?”

“Unlikely, seeing as she's been in the ground twelve years.” Bryan snorted. “Best I can say is, if you want to keep them around, keep them happy. They like music, and shiny things. Food, as well. My great-aunt used to leave out a thimble of honey when one of her kids was unwell, swore they'd be better by the next evening if she did that. And respect, that's important. Don't lie to them, don't insult them, and definitely don't try to screw them over. They might think their own pranks are funny, but there'll be hell to pay if they think you're trying to do the same.”

Mark nodded, remembering with a twinge how he'd snuck down to the lake. Nicky had warned him off that too. He hoped he hadn't offended whatever it was.

He really hoped he wasn't going crazy.

 

*

 

He set down the china carefully. Milk and honey in the teacup, a handful of grapes on the saucer, along with a couple of shiny crystals he'd picked up from a bucket at the craft shop in town. It had been busy in there, decked out with Halloween decorations. It was still a month away, but Mark had already seen a couple of plastic skeletons hanging off doorways on the way out of town.

“I...” He stood on the doorstep, feeling like an idiot. “I'm sorry about last night,” he called. There was nothing but silence, and the echo of his own voice. It was just getting dark. “I didn't mean to offend you. This is... for you.” He looked down at the teacup. “Okay, well...” He pushed back inside, cheeks burning with embarrassment, and shut the door. Then he went to sit in front of the fire, one eye trained carefully on the door.

Nothing happened.

After a few hours he got up. It was late, and nothing was going to happen tonight. He went upstairs to take a shower.

He always sang in the shower. Sang everywhere, come to that, but the acoustics in the bathroom were quite good, and it there was no-one else around to hear. Before he knew it he was absently trilling a Mariah Carey song, foot tapping slightly on the porcelain basin.

He was just climbing out, still humming, when he saw a zip of light in the mirror, going past the window.

Mark froze. Forced himself to start singing again, pretending like everything was normal. He dried off, dressed, and went downstairs to sit on the sofa, carefully not going anywhere near the door.

He went to bed an hour later, satisfied that nothing else was happening.

When he woke the next morning everything was gone. The milk, the grapes, the stones. Even the cup and saucer, a little sprig of cowslip left in it's place.

He laughed, and picked it up, the flowers small and yellow, perfect in his hand. He peered out across the woods, at a cold morning mist rising off the trees.

“Thanks,” he said stupidly, then headed back inside, looking for somewhere safe to keep it.

 

*

 

He tried different things, over the next few evenings. Cold meat, fresh fruit. He left dried apricots out with some honey, and they were taken quickly, a purple orchid left in it's place. He put it in a vase in the living room, next to the cup he'd put the cowslip in, though the flowers were starting to wilt a little. The next evening he left a piece of cake and a cup of iced tea.

He heard the clatter of the cup being knocked over, and laughed. It had turned into a fun little routine. During the day he'd go for walks and write music, and at night he'd wait for the wisp. Maybe it was the country air, but he was feeling better than he had in years. He had room to move, suddenly, his lungs fuller and limbs stronger and not stiff from sitting behind a desk. It was like being young again, wanting to feel the sun on his skin and the wind in his hair, the grass under his bare feet.

Songs were pouring out of him. He wasn't sure if they were good or not, but they were honest. Angry, miserable, joyous things that said what he hadn't been able to say for years, not even to himself.

He stepped outside, raking a hand back through his hair when the wind threatened to blow it into his eyes. He was getting unkempt, knew it, had stopped bothering to shave when he'd arrived.

There was a splash from the lake. He sidled down the hill in his pyjamas and a jacket, trying to peer through the darkness.

“Hi.” He stopped on the shore. Nicky looked up, smiling.

“Hello.” He disappeared underneath the water again, came up pushing water out of his eyes, his hair plastered flat. Mark wasn't sure if he was naked, but he was beautiful, lithe and strong, effortless, his skin pale in the moonlight.

“Bit late for a swim?”

Nicky stood. Definitely naked. Mark could see narrow hips, arrowing down below the water, a flat stomach. No hair. Mark wondered if he waxed, though most of his thoughts were caught up with not saying something stupid. His tongue was plastered to the roof of his mouth, suddenly. Nicky smirked.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Mark managed.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Erm...” He did. Wanted to sink in to the water and pull Nicky close, feel him wet and smooth against him. The rest of him felt abruptly inadequate, like nothing he could show could possibly live up to this. Nicky took a step towards him, and Mark swallowed, watching him rise out of the water, droplets of water catching on bare thighs, and...

“Up to you.” Nicky turned suddenly, dove back in. Mark shook his head, feeling himself flush. There had barely been a splash, though a ripple was spreading where Nicky had disappeared. And then hadn't come up. Mark swallowed, watching. Waiting. Too long. It had been too long.

He yanked off his slippers and jacket, diving in. The water was freezing, punching the air from his lungs, too dark and murky to see anything when he tried to open his eyes. He stroked quickly to where Nicky had been, groping through the water, his feet barely kissing the bottom.

“Nicky?”

“Hey.”

He swore, spun around. Nicky was sat on the edge of the water, next to his shoes and jacket, a cheeky grin on his face.

“Fuck...” Mark started to laugh, a nervous, relieved giggle. Nicky laughed too. “Scared the crap out of me.”

“And now you're in the water.” Nicky dove back in, and Mark felt fingers brush at his leg just before Nicky's head poked up on his other side, eyes peering up over the surface, mouth still below. His head tilted back, and Mark laughed when a stream of cold lakewater was spat in his direction.

“I'm glad you're having fun.” Nicky laughed. “I'm soaked, now.”

“Might as well swim with me, then.” He darted away, backstroking quickly away from the shore, then settled, waving. “Come on.”

“I...” It was dark. Still, he could see his house from here, and he supposed there was nothing in here that was going to hurt him, not if Nicky looked so cavalier. “It's freezing.”

“Is it?”

He shrugged, laughed, and then figured what the hell. He shucked off his clothes under the water, feeling them stick and billow as he tried to fumble off his pyjama bottoms. Tossed them towards the shore to land with his other clothes. Then he stroked towards Nicky, glad for the darkness and the water, trying to hide as much of himself as possible.

“You're not cold?”

“No.” Nicky ducked down to face him, pink lips shining with moisture. They touched to his a moment later, the lightest caress. Mark felt his own part in surprise. When Nicky pulled back it was with a smirk. “Are you?”

“No.” He wasn't, not now. Felt decidedly warm. A hand touched his under the water, then slid up, curving over his shoulder and up his neck. It tugged, guided, and then a mouth was on his, a tongue flitting out for the barest moment. He met it, heard a moan he realised was himself. The echoing laugh fluttered against his mouth, soft and throaty. His hands closed on a slender waist, felt it sway into his touch.

Nicky pulled away, licking his lips.

Then he leaned back in.

 

*

 

It was late when Mark woke, the sun streaming through the bedroom window and lighting the whole room. He lay still for a long time, smiling blankly at the ceiling, unable to do much else.

He couldn't remember when he'd come to bed. Couldn't remember a lot of things. Could just remember Nicky, kisses so heady he'd felt faint, fingers slow and magic on his skin. Cold water, Nicky almost weightless when legs had wrapped around his waist and they'd sunk below the surface, Nicky's mouth giving him breath until he could come up again.

He was humming, in the middle of making a light breakfast, when there was a knock on the door.

“Hey.” He laughed in surprise. Bryan smiled back, nodding.

“Hi. Sorry, I should have called, but...” He glanced over Mark's shoulder. “I was passing, and it was my day off, so I thought...”

“Come in,” Mark offered. “Definitely.” He stood back, let Bryan sidle past. “I was just doing toast, if you want?”

Bryan said that was fine, and a few minutes later Mark had toast and jam on the kitchen table, along with a pot of tea. He poured Bryan a cup, watched him add milk and sugar.

“You're probably wondering why I'm here.”

“Can I make I guess?” Mark teased. Bryan shrugged bashfully.

“Have you seen it again?”

“Yeah. Couple times. I've been leaving food out...” He gestured towards the door. “It likes fruit, mostly, and sweets.” He gestured towards the orchid on the coffee table. “It's been leaving flowers.” Bryan looked surprised.

“It must like you.”

“Maybe. I don't know.” It was hard to tell, he supposed. “I was talking to someone else, and he said they leave like for like, sort of. Karma, I guess. Do unto others, and all that.”

“Who said that?”

“Just... this guy I met. Think he lives nearby.” He felt himself blush, remembering what they'd done last night. It hadn't been like with Kian, hadn't been fucking. Hadn't even been sex, really. They'd just... god, he didn't know, but it had felt like being in a dream, like he was drunk on kisses and touch.

“Oh.” Bryan nodded. “Can I see?” he said suddenly, then looked away bashfully, laughing slightly. “Sorry. Just, I've never seen anything. My nan used to talk about it all the time, say you could spot the wisps if you were patient, but I never saw...” He shook his head. “Honestly thought it was all made up until...”

“Still could be,” Mark admitted. “I could just be going nuts.”

“I don't think you're nuts.” Bryan took a sip of his tea. “It's fine, either way. I'm probably intruding or something, but...” He sighed. “I don't know. I'm sorry.”

“It's fine,” Mark decided. “Come around tonight if you want. It usually starts just after sunset.” There was no harm in it, surely. He'd leave out some food, and wait inside, like he usually did. “It's not every night, though. I can't promise...” Suddenly he was worried. What if it didn't show up? Or worse, what if he saw it and Bryan didn't? Then he really could call himself crazy.

“I'll get out of your hair until then.” Bryan finished his tea, and stood. “Around five?”

“Sounds good.” Mark walked him to the door.

He finished breakfast and went to have a shower, still able to feel fingers on his skin.

 

*

 

“What happens now?”

“I wait.” Mark shrugged. “Sometimes it's straight away, sometimes it takes hours.” He'd just put a small bowl of fruit salad on the doorstep, next to a glass of milk. “Sometimes I go to bed and it's just gone in the morning.”

“Foxes, maybe?”

“Foxes don't leave flowers.” The orchid was dying now, stooping over on it's stem. “We'll find out soon, I guess.” He settled in front of the fireplace, one eye carefully on the shadowy gap beneath the door.

Bryan was good company, in the end. After some halting starts, they settled into conversation, laughing and talking. Bryan was interested in music as well, played guitar and piano, and Mark promised to play him a couple of things he'd been working on, when they weren't faerie-watching. Bryan said that sounded grand, and said he'd bring his guitar next time, that maybe they could jam a little bit. That sounded like great fun, and they started making plans to meet at the pub one night for a pint and to watch the match.

It was good to have company again. Apart from Nicky, Mark realised he'd barely spoken to anyone in the few weeks he'd been here. That had been the point, he supposed, solitude and reflection, but loneliness was another beast he didn't want to face, and Bryan seemed like a good remedy.

“I don't think it's coming,” Mark had to admit, finally. He was a little disappointed, didn't want Bryan to go yet, but it was almost ten and there was still no sign. “Sorry.”

Bryan deflated slightly. Mark touched his shoulder apologetically, and went to put the kettle on again.

He was just stirring in the sugar when there was a sudden crash from outside. He jumped, saw Bryan look around in shock. When he ran to open the door there was broken china on the step, floating in a puddle of milk and watermelon chunks. It was streaked down the door too, an angry splat where it had been thrown at the wood with obvious force.

“Erm...” Mark stared at the puddle. “That's not happened before.”

“Holy shit.” Bryan was looking pale. “Holy shit.” He let out a broken laugh. “You didn't do that, right? Like, you're not pulling my leg?”

“No. I mean...” He touched a running droplet of milk, lifted it. He could smell it already. Rancid. It had been fresh when he'd put it out. “It's sour.”

“Did you do something to piss it off?”

“No. I don't...” He swallowed, then looked at Bryan, who was still staring in shock. “You need to leave,” he said. “It doesn't like that I brought you.”

“But...” Bryan looked at the milk. “Shit,” he muttered. Mark swallowed down a knot of sudden worry. He'd heard enough of what happened when the folk were annoyed.

“I'm sorry!” he called into the woods. Bryan was staring at him. “It won't happen again. I didn't mean to upset... you...” He trailed off. There was no sign, though, no light in the darkness. “It wasn't his fault, okay? If you're angry, be angry at me.”

“Angry?” Bryan stepped back, and as Mark watched he quickly made the sign of the cross over his chest, then spat in the dirt. “Er... I'd better go.” He headed towards his car.

“You forgot your jacket...”

“Keep it!” Bryan called over his shoulder. The door was already slamming shut. He peeled away up the road, red lights disappearing around the bend. Mark looked back at the forest, stomach twisting into a knot.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Mark hung up the phone, looking around at the empty cottage. He'd just finished telling his mother that this weekend was maybe not the best time, that next weekend wasn't either. He missed them, had wanted to see them, but after the incident with Bryan he was too nervous about having people in the house, especially people he cared about.

Not that he could say that. He'd sound crazy.

He'd left food out every night since, but by the weekend it had been left untouched. On Saturday night he went to sit on the step to wait, eyes scanning the trees.

“...remember those walls I built... baby they're tumbling down...”

His voice echoed through the valley, sounding almost wrong to his ears when it bounced back, like flat feedback. Half an hour later there was still no sign. He stood up, deciding to go in.

“Don't stop.”

He looked up, laughing when he saw Nicky, lurking beside the corner of the house.

“Where did you come from?”

“Heard you.” He nodded. “Didn't want to interrupt.”

“Oh...” He stepped a little closer. Nicky didn't move. “Sorry. I'm probably being really annoying, then. I didn't realise...” He let out a slow breath, realised he was starting to babble. “This is going to sound really stupid.”

“Is it?” Nicky still hadn't moved, his face cast in the shadows.

“I... I think I pissed off the...” He hesitated. “Guess I believe in them after all, don't I?” Nicky snorted, tilting his head. “I didn't mean to. I just had a friend over, and I think they thought...” He sighed. “I don't know.”

“A friend?”

“Yeah. Well... sort of. It's just this guy I met in the village. There's nothing between us,” he said quickly, when he realised Nicky's gaze was slightly suspicious. “We're not like...” He gestured between them.

“No?”

“No.” He sagged slightly, feeling deflated. “Anyway. I erm...” He stepped closer. “About the other night...”

“What about it?”

“I don't know,” Mark admitted. “I erm.” He huffed out an embarrassed breath. “I guess I... wanted to see if you'd like to go get coffee sometime? Or maybe... dinner? I feel a bit like we put the cart before the horse, you know? Not that I'm complaining. Definitely not. But...” Nicky was still watching him, though there was a laugh dancing in his eyes. “Would you like to come in?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Mark didn't know what to say. “Oh, okay.” He shrugged. “So... it was just a thing, then? Like, should I forget about it, or?”

“Come swimming with me.” It wasn't a suggestion. Mark hesitated. It was cold tonight, much too cold to be in the water.

“Not tonight.” He looked back over his shoulder, in through the front door, where the fire was crackling happily, warm and bright.

“Why not?”

“Because it's cold.” Nicky was still stood in the shadows, watching him with bright eyes. Mark stepped closer, feet finding the way. “I...”

Nicky kissed him.

“Oh.” He pulled back, a confused giggle spilling off his lip. Nicky was watching him, eyes solemn and earnest. “You, um...”

“Come for a swim,” he breathed. Mark felt his skin fizz where delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist. They tugged. He went. “Come,” he whispered. “Come with me.” The other hand slid under his shirt, moulding to his chest, over his heart. There was a sound like a purr, and Nicky's head nestled in his neck, kisses pressing to throat. Mark felt his knees buckle slightly. Lips traced his pulse, sucking gently, then a tongue flicking out, like he was tasting.

“I...”

“Precious thing,” Nicky muttered. Mark felt a chill run his spine, not sure why that sounded wrong. “Sweet thing.”

“Nicky.” He gulped. “Let's go inside, yeah? We can...” The hand on his chest slid out, then began to pick open his buttons.

“You want it.” A kiss walked up his jaw, pouting lips finding the way. “You want me.” Mark closed his eyes, shuddering. His shirt fell open. “I can feel you. You _glow_.” He nuzzled into Mark's cheek, a breath sighing out. Muscles twisted under his touch, and Mark realised his fingers had slipped inside Nicky's shirt without meaning to. He was smooth, almost hot to the touch, even in light clothes. A hum of approval rumbled against his ear.

“Jesus,” Mark breathed. Then he was grabbing Nicky, yanking him in, feeling legs wrap around his waist, Nicky light in his arms, arching against him.

“Love me,” Nicky gasped in his ear. Mark closed his eyes, and did as he was told.

 

*

 

He woke on the ground, grass stuck to his cheek. It was still dark, almost dawn, and when he sat up Nicky was sat beside him, cross-legged. He groaned, feeling stiffened muscles protest, then smiled, getting a shy grin in return.

He felt wrecked. Exhausted and overwrought, like a horse run way beyond it's limits. His lungs burned. He felt thin, somehow, full in other ways, like he'd been hollowed out and filled up again. Filled with Nicky, who was looking at him carefully.

“Morning.” He stretched slightly, trying to think past the blur of sleep. Past the memory of fingers grasping at him, pulling him in as time had seemed to slow, the minutes unspooling into hours. He was naked, still. Nicky was dressed, and he felt abruptly exposed. Reached for his trousers, blushing when Nicky laughed affectionately.

“Sun's coming,” Nicky observed. Mark nodded. It was, a green trickle creeping up into a purpling sky. “I have to go.”

“Stay for breakfast.”

“No.” Nicky smiled. “No,” he murmured, though it appeared to be more to himself than Mark. When he looked up, his eyes were soft. A kiss brushed Mark's mouth, careful. “Tonight.”

“Yeah.” Absolutely, yeah. He'd have to sleep all day to find the energy, but... “Nicky, I...” He didn't know what to say. “I'll miss you, then.” He saw a bashful twinkle in blue eyes. “I'll meet you at the water. If the wisp sees you it might get angry again, and I don't want...” He wanted Nicky safe. Wanted it badly. Another kiss lapped at his mouth, a promise hidden in it's depths.

He stood. Mark watched, wishing he had the energy to do the same. Before he could manage it, though, Nicky was dashing down the hill, legs long and loping, throwing dawn shadows across the grass. He disappeared into the trees with a wave. Mark waved back.

The bed was warm when he fell into it.

He slept for hours.

 

*

 

The market loading bay was a bit damp.

A steady rain had been falling all day. Mark had woken in the mid-afternoon, went to get some lunch, and then realised he was down to bread and cheese. He would have happily made a sandwich, but there was nothing left for that night, and he wanted to put some extra effort in. Leave something special, if he was going to be meeting Nicky, something that would placate the wisp.

They'd said Bryan was on a smoke break, so Mark had popped around the back to say hi and return his jacket.

Bryan looked up, then stomped out his cigarette, stalking for the door.

“Bryan...”

“Don't... come near me.” Mark hesitated. Bryan did too, paused in the doorway, a safe distance between them.

“About the other night...”

“Just...” Bryan crossed his arms. “I don't want to talk about it. It's too...” He shrank back a little. “All my plates were smashed,” he said. “Every single one of them, in a big pile on the floor.” Mark blinked.

“I... I'm sorry.”

“I had to clean them all up. Some of it was family stuff too, belonged to my nan. It was just...” he took in a deep breath. “I put it all in the bin, was vacuuming for hours, and then this morning...” He swallowed. “They were all back. All of them. Good as new.” His arms weren't just crossed now, seemed to be actively hugging himself. “Except the dustman had already been, so how...?” He shook his head. “I don't want anything to do with it. I shouldn't have told you all that stuff. It _knows_ me now. What if...”

“I didn't know it would...”

“You're playing with things you don't understand,” Bryan interrupted. “None of us understand. We can pretend, and leave out gifts, and all that shit, but they're not _human_ , Mark. They don't care about us. They're older and meaner than God, and...” He swallowed. “I've got kids. Two daughters. They live with their mum, but what if the folk find 'em, hey? If they... take them away for a laugh, or something? Smash 'em like the plates, then put them back together all wrong, because they can't tell the difference between people and objects?"

“They wouldn't...” He trailed off. He didn't know for certain, he supposed. Didn't know anything. “I'm sorry. I'll... say something, maybe.”

“I don't care what you do.” Bryan was reaching for the door handle. “Just leave me out of it.”

It slammed shut behind him.

Mark went back inside. Someone else served him at the deli, though he could just see Bryan sat out the back through the plastic strips that led to the freezer, head in his hands and shaking.

He left the jacket with the girl at the checkout.

 

*

 

Mark left the food on the doorstep before he went down to the water that night. It was a bit of a spread, cold meats and sliced apple, a wedge of cheese, some green olives, and a small bowl of honey, a glass of cold milk beside it. There was no sign of the wisp.

Two hours later there was no sign of Nicky, either.

He stood, not sure what to think. Maybe he wasn't coming. Maybe, after all that, Mark had been disappointing. He bit his lip, wondering if he should go in, give it up.

There was a howl in the woods. He jumped. It sounded human.

He backed away from the trees. Heard it again, almost a shriek. It sounded hoarse, angry, from deep within the trees. A burst of birds fluttered from the canopy, their sleep broken.

Nicky.

He made for the path, then hesitated. He'd get lost. Never find his way back out. Thinking quickly, he ran up the hill and into the house, looking for something he could use to mark his way. There was a ball of string in the second drawer down, and he yanked it out, stuffed it in his pocket, along with a roll of masking tape. He hurried back down to the water, listening.

“Nicky!?”

There was silence. He edged closer, tilting his head, trying to hear.

“Nicky!”

There it was again. A wail. Not frightened, not exactly.

“Nicky! I'm coming!”

He knotted the string to a branch at the edge of the clearing. It wasn't that long, maybe only eighty metres at the outside, but it would take him a little way, at least, and then he could figure out...

He tried to run straight, to give the string as much slack as possible. By the time it ran out, though, he couldn't see the water, just the white thread running back through the trees, curving away.

“Nicky!”

He knotted the other end to the closest branch, and took out the tape. Put a cross on the next tree, jogged a little down the path. Put another cross up, making sure he could see the last one from here. The path disappeared. He stepped over a fallen log, sure he'd seen it before.

“Nicky,” he breathed. It was him, sat in the light of the full moon in the little clearing. Mark stepped towards him.

“Stop,” Nicky rasped. His knees were to his chest, arms crossed on top, protecting himself. “Don't move.” Mark froze, one foot into the clearing. Then he saw the mushrooms.

“But...”

“Stay. There.” Nicky looked around, eyes narrowing. Then they fixed on a spot, somewhere to Mark's left. “Turn your coat inside out.”

“What?”

“Just... do it.” Mark did as he was told, shrugging it off. He flipped the sleeves, then pulled it back on. The coat was black, the lining a dark blue. “Good.” Nicky was still looking into the darkness, a watchful glare. He snarled, then, and shouted something into the trees, something Mark didn't understand, that couldn't be English, definitely wasn't Irish.

“Nicky.”

“Shh.” Nicky pushed himself to his feet. He looked... different, somehow. Maybe it was the moonlight, but he looked... duller. Older, maybe, though Mark couldn't say how. “Do you know the way back?”

“Yes.” He looked over his shoulder, saw white crosses in the trees.

“Then you need to run.” There was a flicker as Nicky stepped towards the edge of the circle, like a mirage cooling on the edge of a desert, stuttering in the dark. “Don't stop. Don't look back. No matter what you hear. Promise.”

“But what about...”

“No matter what you hear.” Nicky's eyes were darker than they had ever been, almost purple. “Promise.”

“I... I promise.”

“Then go.” Nicky shoved him. Hard.

Mark ran.

There was a shriek behind him, something otherworldly. He started to turn, startled, then remembered. The forest lit up behind him, almost blinding, a cold strike of lightning that burned on the backs of his eyes. He almost lost the crosses for a moment in the flash of it, and then he was stumbling, feeling for the trees. The forest seemed alive, leaves grasping like fingers, twigs scratching at his arms. His hands found the string. There was that shriek again, something angry, shivering in his blood.

The trees cleared. He fell forward, landing on the shore on his hands and knees, fingers sinking in soft mud and the water lapping around his wrists. Closed his eyes, not sure if he could look yet. Not sure if he wanted to.

He was still there, knelt in the water, eyes closed, when he felt a hand touch gently to the back of his neck.

He flinched, sobbed, realised there were tears on his cheeks. A kiss brushed them away.

“Open your eyes,” Nicky whispered. He shook his head.

“What will I see?”

“Me.”

Mark did. Looked up. Nicky was knelt in the water, facing him. He sank back onto his knees, hands lifting from the soft mud.

“What...?”

“Come inside,” Nicky murmured. Mark sobbed again, heart in a vice. “You're cold.”

 

*

 

Nicky was singing softly to him, as Mark sat in front of the fire. There was a tub of hot water around his feet, and careful fingers were stroking over the scratches on his arm, soothing him carefully down. He had stopped crying, was staring at the flames instead, feeling number and colder than he ever had.

“What are you singing?”

Nicky nuzzled his ear.

“Lullaby.” He kissed the shell of it. “You need to sleep.”

He was about to say that he didn't think he ever could, not after tonight, but he was tired. So, so tired. His legs and chest still burned from running, and his eyes felt so heavy he didn't know how they were open.

“What happened?”

“Shh.” Nicky pulled him closer, kissing his hair. Mark felt himself melt. A soft touch stroked his arm, held him in tighter. He sagged into it, eyes falling closed. When he managed to open them again he noticed a flash of silver. A chain, thin and fragile, encircling a slender wrist, seeming almost to melt to delicate bones.

He closed his eyes again.

He drifted down to the sound of an unfamiliar lullaby, and fingers stroking the back of his neck.

 


	5. Chapter 5

He woke on the bed, not sure how he'd gotten there. Nicky was beside him, fast asleep, his chest rising and falling over slow breaths.

Mark stared.

He looked different, in the daylight. Mark realised he'd not seen him in the light before, nor indoors. It had always been outside, always in the dark, shadows covering Nicky's face. Now he was bare, naked, the sheets pooled around his waist as he lay on his back, one arm hooked absently under the pillow. He looked beautiful. Perfect in a way that couldn't be possible, like he'd been moulded out of a dream.

He stroked his fingers down a strong chest, letting them drift over pink nipples, along the smooth swoop of collarbones. The bump of ribs, making a perfect tune down the xylophone of them, the ridge of muscle over a flat stomach. His thumb dipped into the well of Nicky's navel, fingers splaying over the triangle of his groin.

A hand stroked over his, their fingers threading together. When he looked up he was getting a sleepy smile.

“Sorry,” he said automatically.

“Why?” Nicky let go. Mark shook his head, hand flattening over smooth skin, just below his belly. “I wanted this,” he said quietly. "With you.” He pursed his lips, teeth coming out for a moment to bite nervously into the bottom one.

“Why didn't you come in before, then?”

Nicky shook his head. Long fingers fiddled absently with the chain on his wrist.

“Do you still want me?”

“Want you?” Mark blinked. That was an odd line of enquiry. “I... I mean, yeah, if you still want to get dinner, the offer stands.” Nicky was tilting his head, studying him. Something had happened last night. Something he couldn't quite remember. His legs ached a little. There was something else. He rubbed his arms, sure they should be stinging, but when he looked down they seemed fine. “Did I get drunk last night?” he asked finally. “I don't really remember...”

“Mm...” Nicky's hand covered his again, nudging it down slightly. He was hard, Mark realised, a solid ridge pushing against the sheets. He heard Nicky moan when he wrapped his fingers around it. Gorgeous. Firm and full, leaking against his belly. “Touch me.” It was an arching gasp. “You want to touch me?”

Mark had questions. Lots of them.

Right now he was busy.

 

*

 

Nicky was intoxicating.

Mark couldn't get enough. Couldn't sleep, for wanting him. He was sore, exhausted, his lips and fingertips swollen from running over every pliant inch of him. Couldn't come again, not yet, but that didn't matter. He just wanted...

“Yes...” Nicky breathed. Mark groaned, kissing into him again, felt Nicky arch appreciatively.

“So good,” he mumbled. Nicky tasted beautiful, soft and musky against his tongue. He'd never felt anything like it. He'd done this occasionally with Kian, when it was a special occasion, but now he felt like he couldn't stop. Shivered, wrapped a hand around himself. God, not again. He couldn't. Still, he was hardening, and Nicky was rolling into the sheets, looking back over his shoulder with a look of fond delight.

He kissed up a long back when Nicky was done, gnawing gently into the back of a perfect neck. Content eyes watched him, a smile drifting over pouting lips.

“Have to sleep,” he managed. “Really have to.”

“One more,” Nicky urged. Mark groaned, nuzzling into the strong dip between aquiline shoulderblades.

“You're bloody insatiable.”

“Am I?” Fingers caught his, tugging him flush to Nicky's back. He wrapped around the shape of him, tugging them onto their sides, hands linking on Nicky's stomach.

“Aren't you hungry?”

Nicky was, actually. Mark pulled himself up, staggering on unsteady legs. He was sticky, smelled of sweat and cum. Nicky was the same, though he looked somehow beautiful with it, while Mark suspected he looked a bedraggled mess.

The shower was hot. He groaned, stretching under it, laughing when Nicky climbed in too.

“Not too hot?”

“It's fine.” Nicky bowed his head, water trickling down the back of his neck, cascading out of his hair and over his forehead.

“This is pretty,” Mark commented later, when Nicky was sat on the kitchen counter, his legs around Mark's waist. He'd started to cook, gotten distracted when Nicky had hooked him gently, tugged him into a kiss.

Nicky's hand shifted away, pulling his wrist from Mark's grip.

“Is it an heirloom, or something?”

“No.” Mark was let go. He turned back to the stove. He'd asked what Nicky had wanted, but he'd just said whatever Mark wanted was fine. So, french toast it was. “It was a gift.”

“From who?”

Nicky hopped down off the kitchen counter, shaking his head. Arms slid around Mark's waist from behind. He decided not to pry. Maybe the bracelet was from an ex, or something. God knew there were a few bits and pieces Kian had bought him over the years that he'd kept.

“Will you sleep after food?” Nicky asked suddenly. Mark laughed.

“Maybe, yeah.” It was an odd question. “Will you?”

“No.” Nicky pulled away.

“Will you leave?”

“No.” He crossed his arms. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Mark shook his head. He couldn't explain it, how desperately he didn't want that. He'd only known Nicky a few weeks, barely knew anything about him, but already he knew Nicky belonged here.

The thought stuttered. Then it settled, trickling through the protestations. Nicky smiled at him.

“Will I stay?”

“Yes.” Mark turned back to the stove, his head suddenly thick with cotton wool. “Stay.”

 

*

 

He slept a while. When he woke the house was tidy. Impossibly so, every surface scrubbed to shining, the windows clean, even the light fixtures polished and free of grime and dead bugs.

He found Nicky outside, looking at the locked cellar door.

“What's down there?”

“I don't know. I don't have a key.” Mark shrugged. “Probably nothing. Did you clean while I was asleep? You didn't have to do that...”

“It's iron.” Nicky was staring at the padlock.

“So?”

Nicky shook his head, pulling away.

He got some writing done in the afternoon. Nicky sat nearby, curled up on the sofa. Mark thought maybe he was being boring, but Nicky seemed to be enjoying it, had an encouraging smile on his face whenever Mark looked up. Mark made them a late dinner, and afterwards they sat on the edge of the water, Nicky snuggled against his side.

“You used to come here, sometimes, right?” Mark remembered. “When Maggie lived here?”

“Yes.”

“They said she used to talk to faeries.” He chuckled. Absurd idea. There was something else, though. Something he was supposed to remember. Probably nothing. “Did you ever see anything?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Mark stroked his shoulder. “So, is that what you do for a job, then? Like, help out the elderly and that?”

“I told you what I do.”

“Oh... right.” Nicky had. Of course he had, it was all flooding back. He must have been a little drunker than he thought. “So you're like... park ranger or something? That's how you know your way around the woods?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.” Nicky turned to look at him, the blue of his eyes shifting and dark.

“You know, when you found me I was sure I'd seen a faerie or something? Saw this little light, and then I got lost in the woods. Haven't seen it since, though. The man at the market tried to say there were loads of them. Pulling my leg, I guess. Seemed nice, otherwise. Can't remember his name.” He paused. No, that wasn't right. “Bryan,” he said suddenly. “He was called Bryan.” He looked at Nicky. “Anyway.”

“Do you believe in them?”

“Of course not.” Mark snorted. “Might as well believe in UFOs.” Nicky nodded, turning away. “Would you like to go for a swim or anything? A walk? We could drive into the village and have dinner, if you want. My treat.”

“No.” Nicky kissed his cheek. Mark smiled. “I want to stay here. With you.”

 

*

 

“Not going to put clothes on today?”

Nicky smirked, stretching on the sofa. Pale skin shifted over wiry muscle. Mark took a moment to admire him, peering over his laptop. He'd gotten some stuff down in the last few days, had been suddenly even more prolific than before. He was starting to wonder if he should look for a more permanent place in the area, try to find a job in the village. He'd been here over a month, and already felt more himself than he ever had in his life.

“I'll take that as a no?”

“Would you like me to put on clothes?”

“No.” Mark laughed, settling into the armchair again. “If you're cold, though...”

“I don't get cold.” Nicky yawned. “Mm...” He closed his eyes. Mark leaned over, touched a delicate foot. It curled gently in his grip.

The last week had been a blur of sex and sleep. He'd never felt anything like it, being with someone who complemented him so totally, who seemed to know what he wanted before he'd even thought to want it. It wasn't even kinky, or filthy, it was just fluid and effortless, both of them moving against each other like they fit together.

“I'm going to have to shag you, if you keep looking like that.”

“Will you?” Nicky rolled over onto his stomach, perfect arse curving, temptation incarnate. Mark groaned, had to look away, heard a soft laugh. “Come here,” he breathed. And Mark did, putting his laptop aside, clambering on top to straddle him.

“So sexy,” he muttered. Nicky arched into him. He slid a finger in, felt it go easy.

“Yes,” Nicky whispered. Mark kissed the back of his neck.

“Nicky,” he said wonderingly. “Oh.”

“Beautiful.” Nicky pushed up as he edged down. No protection. He hadn't even considered it. They didn't need it, he was sure, not when Nicky was so perfect. “Sweetling,” he muttered. “You glow. You do.” Mark shook his head, not sure what that was supposed to mean. “You _breathe_.” Nicky gasped, suddenly. They felt connected. Like one soul sharing two bodies, like Nicky was feeding him.

“I love you,” Mark whispered. Nicky muttered agreement. “I love you.”

“Then love me,” Nicky urged. Mark pressed closer, breathing in the scent of him.

 

*

 

Nicky was staring at the cellar door again.

The first time Mark had woken with a jolt, hand groping at the sheets beside him in panic. They'd been together three weeks, and it was the first time Nicky had been out of his sight, away from his touch.

So he'd stumbled to the window, looking out.

This was the third time in as many nights. He wasn't worried, this time. Sidled to the window and peered out, a shadow moving on the grass. He didn't call out. Didn't disturb him. Wasn't sure why, except that he couldn't find the words. The world was too silent, drifting by as silently as the inkblot clouds blocking out the stars.

He could see Nicky. Blonde hair gone dirty grey in the muddled moonlight, hands clenched into fists by his sides. Mark shook himself, feeling something like cotton unswathe itself from his mind, peeling back. There was something here, something he was supposed to know. Something that had clambered through his dreams, grotesque on stilted legs.

Something creaked behind him. He turned. Nothing. A ripple. Like a cooling mirage on the desert sands. He remembered not seeing it before, couldn't remember where he hadn't seen it.

When he looked back, Nicky's shadow was long. Wrong, somehow. Sharper at the ends, twisted, a terrible frown scrawled across it's gunmetal face.

Nicky looked up. Mark stared back.

Something creaked behind him, awfully close.

 

*

 

“Good dreams?” Nicky coaxed gently. Mark yawned. It was a bright day, white clouds drifting across the mid-October sky, guided by a shepherding breeze.

“Think so.” He'd slept right through, as far as he knew, had woken feeling refreshed and content, Nicky snuggled in his arms. “You were in them.”

“Was I?”

“Must have been, if they were good.” Nicky giggled, wriggling when Mark tickled him. “Let's go out today, okay? The cupboard's almost bare.”

“I'll stay here.”

“Why?” Mark kissed the back of his neck. “Come on. I'll buy you lunch.” He squeezed Nicky tighter. “I love the shagging, don't get me wrong, but we need to leave the house sometime.”

“We went out yesterday.”

“So we did.” He wasn't sure how he'd forgotten that, but yes. Of course they had. For a drive, up the road and through the hills, the radio on and both of them singing along. Then they'd stopped by the side of the road and had a picnic, stayed until the sun had started to set. “But we still need food.”

“We have food.”

“Yes.” Mark pursed his lips. “I'm hungry.”

“You just ate.”

“I...” He shook his head. No, that didn't sound right. Nicky was watching him carefully, eyes muddled blue, almost purple. “I want to go out.” He touched his jaw. He needed a shave, didn't know how he'd let it go so long without. “I'm going to go shave,” he decided, pulling himself away from Nicky's embrace. “And then we're going out.” He headed for the bathroom. Nicky followed him in a moment later and climbed into the shower.

“Come in?”

“In a minute.” Nicky pouted. Mark began to lather some shaving cream, spread it over the thick stubble under his chin. Maybe he'd keep the beard, for a bit, just tidy things up.

“You don't want me?”

“I've had you twice this morning,” Mark pointed out. “I won't be long.” He began to pull the razor up, angling it carefully. Nicky was watching him through the mirror, eyes narrowed.

“Now.”

“No.” Mark raised an eyebrow. He knew they'd been shagging all over the place, but five minutes for a shave wasn't too much to ask.

“Now.” Nicky's mouth pulled into a frown.

“No.”

The razor slipped. He yelped, saw the blood before he felt the sting. Then it came, a carving slice of pain from the corner of his jaw halfway to his chin. When he pulled his hand away the fingers were red, the foam going pink as it plopped into the sink.

“Fucking...” He leaned over to grab some toilet paper, jammed it to the cut. It wasn't deep, but it was long, following the ridge of his jaw. He splashed water on it, hissing as the soap ran into it. “Shit.”

“What is it?”

“Cut myself. Argh...” He rinsed it clean, grabbed another handful of toilet paper. “Fucking _hurt_.” The old toilet paper went in the bowl, stained red. Nicky climbed out of the shower, though the water was still running. Fingers cupped to his jaw, nudging away his hand. He winced in pain, and as he did his eyes caught a shimmering ripple in the air. There was something. Something he couldn't quite...

“Close your eyes.”

“Do you see...?”

“Close them.” He did. When he opened them again, Nicky was wiping his jaw gently with a piece of toilet paper. “There, it's not even that bad. Just a nick.” He pulled the paper away, and Mark turned to look in the mirror, saw the tiniest cut, halfway up his jaw.

“It was a lot of blood,” he said numbly. Nicky shrugged.

“Well, it's gone now.” He tossed the paper in the toilet, hit the flush. Mark looked back down into the sink, at a razor with a spot of pink on the blades. He rinsed it slowly, felt fingers drift down his back. “When you're done, get in with me, okay?” He nodded, saw Nicky climb back into the shower. He lifted the razor to his chin, going more carefully this time, though he couldn't help himself looking at Nicky in the mirror.

Nicky, head tipped back under the water, fingers playing absently with a silver chain wrapped around his wrist.

Mark smiled. He was perfect.

 


	6. Chapter 6

They didn't need to go shopping at all, apparently. When Mark got downstairs the cupboards were still fully stocked, fresh fruit and vegetables. Perhaps he'd remembered wrong. They'd been to the supermarket the day before, anyway. He remembered. After the picnic.

They were snuggled on the sofa when his phone rang.

He spoke to his mother for a while. She asked how things were going, and he said they were fine, that he was having a nice time, and that he'd maybe met someone. She asked him if he'd spoken to Kian about that and he said no, that it was really none of his business.

When he hung up Nicky was watching him carefully.

“Who's Kian?”

“Oh...” Mark chuckled. He hadn't thought to tell Nicky, really, hadn't been able to think of Kian. Not with this gorgeous boy taking up all his thoughts. “Ex-boyfriend. He's why I came here, sort of. We decided to spend some time apart.”

“Did he hurt you?” Nicky's eyes were narrowing.

“No.” Mark held him a little tighter. “Or maybe yes. We hurt each other, I think. Not on purpose, but...” He shrugged. “I don't know, really. I think we realised one day that love wasn't enough. That it didn't make up for... other things.”

“What other things?”

“You know. Like... agreeing on certain things. We argued a lot. Not over anything important, even, but we kind of grew up. Grew in different directions. We got together when we were younger, and we just weren't the same people any more. There was no spontaneity or anything. We were just kind of going through the motions.”

“It was his fault, then.”

“No.” Mark laughed. “Course it wasn't. He loved me. He never meant to hurt me on purpose, just like I never meant to hurt him.”

“He loves you?” Nicky's eyes were sharper, suddenly. “He wants your affections?”

“No. Well, yes, but...” Mark shook his head. “I love you.”

“You don't love him?”

“No.” It was mostly true. He did love Kian. Of course he did. Not like that, though. He'd forced himself not to, knew it would hurt too badly if he did. There was no place for it in his life.

“Then you won't mind if he was dead,” Nicky said curtly.

“What?” Mark pulled back a little in surprise. “Of course I'd mind.”

“Why?”

“Because...” He laughed. “I don't hate him. I'd be devastated if...”

“Why?”

“Because he's got a family. And friends who'd miss him. He's not a bad person. He didn't do anything wrong.”

“He must have, or you would love him still.”

“It doesn't really work like that.” Nicky was looking a little flushed, his gaze hard. “It would be like if he wanted me dead for the same reasons. It's not really justified. If we went around killing anyone who'd ever broken up with someone there wouldn't be anybody left. You kiss a couple of frogs before you find a prince. That's life.”

“No.” Nicky crossed his arms. “I love you. You're mine. I wouldn't let you go.”

“You wouldn't let me?”

“No.” He pouted. “He can live, then, your frog. Because it would hurt you if he was dead.”

“Er... okay.” Mark kissed the back of his neck. “Well... thanks.” He chuckled, felt Nicky relax a little in his arms. “He's not you,” he said softly. “There's nothing to be jealous of.”

“No.” Nicky's expression was hard. “There isn't.”

 

*

 

Nicky was staring at the cellar door.

It was odd. Mark had woken a few minutes before, felt a jolt of panic when he realised the other side of the bed was empty. They hadn't been out of each other's sight once, not in the three weeks they'd known each other.

He climbed up, staggered down the stairs, looking for some sign of him. Sure, in his worry, that Nicky had left him. He didn't know what he'd do if Nicky left him.

He was crossing the living room when he saw the shadow of him, shaded across the grass in the light of the moon. It was waxing, a perfect crescent in a clear, flawless sky. He crept to the window, peering out.

Nicky, stood in front of the locked cellar door, his hands balled into fists by his side, hair silver in the starlight.

There was a creak behind him.

He turned. Nothing there, shimmering, like a cooling mirage in the...

He shook his head. Wait.

Looked again.

Shimmering, like...

No. Wait.

Again.

Shimmering, like a cooling...

No.

He closed his eyes, scrunched them tight. Something. Something wrong.

“Mark?”

A kiss touched the back of his neck, fingers caressing his cheek.

“Open your eyes.”

“What will I see?”

The voice wasn't Nicky's. Was terrible, somehow, splintered madness.

“Me,” it whispered.

 

*

 

“Did you have good dreams?”

“Think so.” Mark smiled. Nicky was laid next to him, propped up on an elbow. It was mid-morning, and they'd slept late. Or he had, had woken to Nicky gently stroking his hair. “Love you.”

“Love you.” A kiss touched his mouth. “Will you sing for me today?”

“If you like.” He nuzzled into the kiss, and the next one. Nicky smiled against his mouth, dimples appearing in perfect cheeks. “I want to get some recording done, anyway, so you can hang around while I do that, if you want.”

“Yes.” Nicky sat up, stretched. Mark was about to do the same when his phone rang, a trill breaking through the morning silence.

“Sorry,” he groaned, reaching across. Kian. He sighed, pressing the accept button. “Hey, Kian.”

“Hey.” That was Kian alright. He pulled his knees to his chest, reaching out an arm for Nicky to sidle into. Blonde hair fell against his shoulder. “Just thought I'd call and say hi.”

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

“I'm good. How are you?”

“Doing well. I'm going to Shane's Halloween party this weekend.” Mark nodded. It was almost the end of October already. He couldn't believe it. “Think you might want to drive up for it? You've never missed one before.”

“No thanks.” He looked at Nicky. “Busy here.”

“Yeah? How's everything going?”

“It's nice.” He squeezed Nicky gently, heard a laugh, and squeezed him tighter. “Definitely has it's benefits.” Kian didn't reply. The silence drifted between them.

“You've got someone there?”

“Yes.” There was no point lying. Nicky kissed his cheek.

“Who erm...” Kian hesitated. “You have a boyfriend, then?”

“I have someone, yes.” Nicky was crawling into his lap, rubbing their noses together.

“Is... oh. Okay. Is that why I haven't heard from you?”

“No, you haven't heard from me because we broke up,” Mark replied, unable to help himself. “What are you trying to do here, Kian? Because I'm in the middle of something, and you're calling me. Again.”

“I... I thought we were going to stay friends.”

“No, we said we were going to stay friends because that's what people _say_ ,” Mark retorted. “It's meaningless, like 'it's not you, it's me', or 'your call is important to us'.” He rolled his eyes. “We're not getting back together, so what's the point of any of this?”

“I guess there's not one,” Kian said, after a heavy silence. “Sorry I wasted your time.”

“Goodbye, Kian.” He hung up. Looked at Nicky. “Sorry about that.”

“He makes your heart race,” Nicky murmured. His eyes were savage, when they looked up. “He can't have you.”

“It doesn't matter.” He stroked blonde hair. “I have you.”

Nicky nestled into his shoulder with a smile.

 

*

 

It was getting dark. Mark had just finished a long day of recording. He'd been writing lyrics all that morning, scribbling them down in his notepad. Then sitting behind the microphone, listening to himself in the earphones, feeling like this was the best work he'd ever done. It was almost automatic, like he couldn't stop. He'd even woken before dawn one morning sat at the kitchen table, the laptop open and turned on in front of him. He'd laughed at himself and gone back upstairs, sliding in next to Nicky and explaining that he'd been sleepwalking when his boyfriend opened his eyes and asked where he'd been.

He hadn't known he'd had it in him. He'd always liked doing it, writing poetry and little songs, but now, away from a desk, away from fluorescent lights and middle management and having reports in on time, he'd found an inspiration he hadn't before.

Nicky probably helped.

He made dinner. Nicky didn't cook, apparently, though he liked to eat what Mark made him. It was as he was ladling everything out he realised that he'd put together three bowls of soup instead of two. He shook his head, laughing quietly, and went to tip the third one back into the pot.

“Sweetling?”

“I...” He'd forgotten what he was doing, for a moment. The bowl was still in his hand, warm and getting hotter. If he didn't put it down soon it'd burn his fingers.

He headed for the door. Opened it. Put it down on the step.

“What are you doing?”

“I don't know.” He stepped over it, and outside. The trees were swaying in the breeze, the woods seeming to heave angry breaths; the lake was a dark puddle at the bottom of the hill. “There's something in the woods,” he said, not sure where the words had come from. Nicky took his hand.

“Come back inside.”

“No, but there's something...” He scrubbed a hand over his face, closing his eyes. “What will I see?” he muttered to himself. “What will...” He swallowed, trying to think.

“Open your eyes.”

He did, blinking. Sunset. The last curls of dusk ribboning past the trees, dragging stars behind them.

“It's iron,” he mumbled. “It's iron.”

“What is?”

“The...” He shook his head. “The shadows are wrong. They don't...” He squinted at the trees, stretching around the corner and away into the hills. “The shadows are wrong. There are too many shadows.” He looked at Nicky, at piercing blue eyes. “Too many shadows.” He smacked the heel of his palm against his temple, trying to shake the thought loose. “The wisp,” he remembered suddenly. “The wisp.”

“What wisp?”

“It...” He looked down at the soup, steam rising off it. “There's something. The shadows.” Then, without knowing why, he bent down, and plunged his hand into the bowl.

“No!” Nicky shrieked. Mark howled. Hot. Too hot, scalding him already. He pulled his hand out, feeling his skin burn. It was red, already softening and lifting away.

“Ah...”

Nicky grabbed him, hands wrapping around scalded flesh, squeezing so tight Mark thought he was going to pierce through and pull the muscle from his bones. “Close your eyes.”

“No...” His eyes were open. The pain was blasting, shaking everything off. Everything clear. “No. I can see. I can...” He looked at Nicky, at pale cheeks and dull blue eyes, narrowed in concentration, then saw movement, over his shoulder, creeping through the trees.

“Close your _eyes_.”

“ _No.”_

He was still protesting, trying to pull away, when Nicky flung a handful of dirt in his face.

“Ah...” He covered his eyes, tried to blink, crying in pain. The hand on his burned one tightened again. Another hand clamped to the back of his neck, pulling him close.

Nicky began to sing a lullaby, trickling through the pain.

 

*

 

The grass was dry and soft. They sat on it together, Mark's arm around Nicky's shoulders.

“Would you like to do something today?”

“Just stay here with you.” Nicky nuzzled into his jaw. He was beautiful, in the morning light. They'd woken late. Mark felt tired, his eyes red and itchy, like he'd had a big night in town and stumbled in too early. They hadn't had a late one, he didn't think, just sat in front of the fire, though maybe it was just Nicky, tiring him out.

He'd come downstairs to find Nicky rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, looking possessed. When Mark had asked what he was doing, he'd said he was just having a tidy.

Mark didn't know why he'd bothered. The house was the cleanest it had ever been. Maybe that was just Nicky, though. He liked things ordered. Mark had caught him separating a bag of M&Ms by colour, stacking them into tiny little pyramids. OCD, or something. Regardless, it was kind of cute. He'd organised the wardrobe as well, and the broom cupboard. Mark hadn't seen Nicky doing it, but it certainly hadn't been him.

“Sweetling?”

“Yes?” Mark kissed him. Felt soft lips cling to his.

“It's Samhain in two days.” Mark nodded. He knew the word from his grandmother, the Celtic word for Halloween. She'd always said it was when the space between the worlds was thinnest, this world and the other.

“Do you want to dress up, or anything?”

“Maybe.” Nicky shifted closer. “Will you hold me?” Mark nodded, squeezing him tighter. “Never let me go,” he urged. “I love you.”

“I believe you,” Mark murmured.

Nicky shook his head. “You don't need to believe in something for it to be real. If you stopped believing me, I would still love you.” Mark felt a stammer of something in the back of his head, something trying to get out.

“Have you said that before?”

“I don't know.” Nicky turned away. “I... forget. There's too much to remember.” He looked out over the fields, and Mark could swear his eyes were scanning the woods.

He held Nicky tighter, feeling graceful fingers thread into his.

 

*

 

Nicky was staring at the cellar door.

Mark pushed outside. He'd woken up, panicked, sure Nicky had left him for a moment. They hadn't been out of each other's sight, not in the four weeks since he'd been here. He didn't want Nicky to leave. He didn't...

“Nicky?”

Nicky looked up. His shadow shifted, mingling with the fall of Mark's own, thrown by the kitchen light.

“It's iron,” he said softly. “I can't...” He shook his head, stared back it it, hands clenching into fists. “Where's the key?” he muttered. “Can't find the key.”

“I don't know,” Mark admitted. “I'm sorry.”

“Out of time.” Nicky sank to the grass, cross-legged. He looked defeated, somehow, his shadow bunching in. “I tried.”

“Tried to what?”

Nicky shook his head, his fingers playing in the silver chain wrapped around his wrist.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too.” Mark crouched down beside him. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Stay with me til the last.” Nicky looked up, eyes bright with tears. “Promise me that.”

Mark wrapped his arms around him, and promised.

 

*

 

Nicky was asleep. He'd been more tired the last few days, just run down and red around the eyes, and when Mark had asked he'd said he'd not been sleeping well. Mark hoped he wasn't coming down with something. He couldn't stand the idea of Nicky being sick.

He sat down at his laptop, meaning to listen over some of the songs he'd recorded. He hadn't had much of a chance, had been too busy recording to spend much time checking them, but he couldn't do any singing without disturbing Nicky, so he supposed now was as good a time as any other.

It sounded good. He listened through the first track, playing with the mixing and experimenting with a few different beats and samples. He'd been tinkering with it almost an hour, trying to get the hang of all the different functions, when he realised there was a second vocal track down the bottom of the screen, running alongside the drum mix.

He shook his head, clicking on it. He'd probably done it himself by mistake, mucked it up somehow and hit copy instead of paste.

Empty, just like he'd thought. He shook his head, going to drag it into the trashcan.

 _Too many shadows_ , it whispered.  He froze.  That was his own voice, he was sure of it.  Couldn't remember recording this.  He turned the volume up, watching the tracker run along the almost flat run of soundwaves in the bar.  But not completely flat, no.  There was a tiny swell, just toward the end. Mark pulled it up, peering closer.  Held the cup of the headphones closer to his ear.

He hit play.

 _Too many shadows._ It crackled, soft feedback, and for a moment he heard something else.  A chattering voice, a hard language he didn't understand, metallic and like bells.  _Too many shadows._ Crackling.  He turned the volume up.  _Three shadows on the door_.

There was a sudden, deafening pop.  He yelped, yanked the headphones off.

Nicky trotted down the stairs a moment later, yawning.  Mark stared at him.  Nicky caught him looking, and squinted at him, tilting his head.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”  Mark closed the laptop quickly, reaching out an arm for Nicky to sidle into.  His ears were still ringing.  “What would you like for breakfast?”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Three shadows.  He didn't know what it meant.  What it was supposed to mean.

He'd said it, though.  It was definitely his own voice, whispering amongst the feedback, against the chattering.  It grated on his ear, that chattering, like something from a nightmare, the click of claws on a metal floor.

Three shadows on the door.

Nicky seemed listless.  He sank down the moment he was up.  When Mark went to sit with him, tried to touch him a little, show some affection, he was pushed gently away.  For the first time, he was pushed away.  He took Nicky's hand instead, watching his chin tremble, and a tear spill down his cheek.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Nicky managed.  He cleared his throat.  “Nothing, sweetling.”  He breathed out slowly. “Let's go walking tomorrow.  When it gets dark.”

“If you like.”  He stroked Nicky's hair gently, thinking that sounded quite romantic.  “Where do you want to go?”

But Nicky just brushed a kiss to his cheek and shook his head, squeezing his hand tight.

 

*

 

Three shadows.

It was getting dark, the last evening before Halloween.  Mark stood on the edge of the lake, peering in.

Nicky was sleeping.  Had been all afternoon.  He'd looked... thin.  He was usually vibrant, almost glowing with energy, but he'd seemed older, somehow.  Hollow in the eyes, a darkness that trickled into lines that hadn't been there before.

Three shadows. 

The sun was going down.  He looked behind himself, saw Nicky come out onto the porch, tip him a wave that looked impossibly heavy, though he'd always felt light in Mark's arms.

“Three,” he murmured.  He could see two, of course.  His and Nicky's.  He began to climb the hill, smiling when Nicky began to amble down to meet him.  “I love you,” he said softly.  Nicky said it back, clinging to him, and they began to walk up the hill again, his arm carefully around a slender waist, their two shadows blending on the grass, lengthening as night fell.

 

* 

 

Nicky was staring at the cellar door.

Mark heard him crying, first.  Woke up in a panic, hand groping at the sheets.  Soft sobs, trickling up from the side of the house and through the open window.  He looked out, saw Nicky sitting on the grass, hunched in the moonlight. 

His shadow, a blotted pond spilling around his knees.

A creak, from behind him. 

He turned.

Nothing there.  Nothing. 

A mirage, shimmering like...

He shook his head and trotted down the stairs, out the front door.  Nicky looked up, tears streaking his cheeks. 

“Nicky, I'm...”  He flicked the porch light on.  Nicky blinked, shielding his eyes against the light.

Mark stepped closer.  Saw something shift across Nicky's face, dark.  Turned around. 

A shadow.  His own.

No.

There was his, running alongside it.  He followed it with his eyes, stepped away, heard Nicky moan softly. 

“Don't say her name,” he whispered.  Mark froze.  The shadow of the porch swing swayed slightly in the kitchen light, rocked by the breeze, and stretched out above it were head and shoulders, feet dangling beneath, trickling across the grass...

A hand covered his mouth.  Nicky.  He stiffened, saw a head turn slowly at his feet, blacker than any shadow should have been. 

“Close your eyes.”

“No.”  Mark couldn't look away.  As the shadow stretched her legs and stood, the shape of a hem fluttering about her knees. 

A hand reached.  It fell across the door, groping at the padlock.  Iron.  Nicky had said.  It yanked back, suddenly, as if burnt, then fell, crawling at the grass in front.  Mark swallowed, tried to think. Three shadows.  Three shadows on the...

He fell to his knees, already digging.  The grass cut at his hands, but the earth was soft, and a minute later it came free, sod dangling between his fingers.  He tossed the clump aside, scooped down again, trying to ignore the black shape of fingers scrabbling over his. 

“What are you...”

His fingers touched it.  Half a foot deep, tangled in old roots.  He yanked, felt it catch, and then come free, his arm snapping back and out of the hole, the key clutched between muddy fingers.  He heard a hiss.  Nicky. 

“I...”  He held it out.  “The key.  You were...”  He watched Nicky flinch back, watched Nicky... ripple.  Pale skin gone suddenly grey, insubstantial, like a mirage in the...

“Close your eyes,” Nicky ordered.  The shadow was howling silently, crawling angrily across the grass.  Mark went to protest, watch blue eyes flash purple.  “ _Do_ it!” Nicky shrieked suddenly.  Mark did, too startled to do much else. 

The light was blinding.  He covered his closed eyes, but it still trickled between his fingers, searing into his retinas, sending shadows dancing across his vision.

There was another shriek.  He'd heard it before, he realised.  Had forgotten.  How had forgotten a sound like that?  Otherworldly and pained, hoarse anger.  It rang in his ears, adding deafness to his blindness.  He sank to his knees, crying in pain.  It felt like his head was about to be crushed under the weight of it. 

A hand snatched at his, yanked him to his feet.  He stumbled blindly, felt slender fingers he knew the touch of so well.  Eyes closed, the key still grasped in his free hand.  Skidding and slipping down the hill, his feet suddenly wet when they hit the shore with a splash.

The brightness was gone.  It was abruptly dark, but his eyes were still dancing with flashing spots. He kept them closed, felt Nicky pull him along, twigs and leaves scratching at his skin.  By the time he stopped, still blind, his chest burning, he didn't think he could stand a moment longer.  He was sat down gently, the edge of a stump cutting into the back of his knees.

“Sweetling,” Nicky soothed.  Mark's eyes were leaking tears, agony, panic, and blindness mixed. A hand covered them gently, a kiss brushing his forehead.  When it moved away the darkness was settled, the pain gone.  “Open your eyes.”

“What will I see?” he whispered. 

“Me.”  Fingers caressed his cheek.

“The real you?” 

Nicky hesitated.

“No,” he said finally.  “Never that.”  Mark nodded.  Memories were starting to creep back in. Things he didn't know he'd forgotten, that he couldn't say for certain weren't dreams. 

“The wisp,” he murmured.  A  forehead leaned against his.  “You.”

“Me,” Nicky admitted.  He'd found out already, somewhere along the line.  Knew that, suddenly. 

“Will you make me forget again?”

“No.”  He felt Nicky retreat, realised his hand had opened, the key inside.  He closed his fist again. “No.  I won't.”  Nicky sighed softly.  “I love you.”

“I don't believe you.” 

“It doesn't matter if you do or not.”  A kiss touched his mouth.  “You glow,” he whispered.  “I see it when you breathe, brighter than anyone else.”  He shivered.  “You sang to me.”

“You heard me.”

Nicky snorted a laugh. 

“I was supposed to watch.  I have been watching.  For centuries.  She was too dangerous to...”  He swallowed.

“Maggie?” 

“That's not her real name.”  Nicky lowered his voice.  “It never was.  We don't say her real name.”

“Is Nicky your real name?”

“No.”  His voice brushed over Mark's mouth sweet and smelling of cowslips.  “You'd never be able to say my name, not with your tongue.  If you saw me – the real me – you'd go mad in a moment.” 

“Good way to start a relationship.”  He sighed, scrubbing both hands over his closed eyes.  Then, slowly, he opened them.  Nicky smiled back, gaze earnest and appraising.  “You're... one of them.”  Nicky nodded slowly.  “Are you good or bad?”

“We're... guardians.  The woods have been ours, longer than memory.  Before humans came.  She came later.  Or maybe she'd always been there, a black horror settled in the wrong hearts.”  He looked away.  “We just are.  What she was...”  He chewed his lip.  “Dead. Evil so strong it killed the grass where she walked.  Animals fell if she woke in the wrong mood, whole flocks rotting in the fields.”

“How old _are_ you?”

“Hard to tell.  Time is... different.”  There was a rustle, and Mark looked up in fright.  “She won't find us here.  The path moves.”  

“Of course it does,” Mark sighed.  He leaned his chin in his palm, regarding Nicky.  Tried to see it. The glamour, or whatever it was.  But it just looked like Nicky.

“We trapped her.  It took everything we had.  A curse, lasting a hundred years.  In the body of a human.  We found a babe, an orphan, and settled her there.  Then I was tasked to keep watch.” 

“You... stayed with her a hundred years?”

“Yes.”  Nicky nodded.  “And no.  We couldn't kill her, she was too strong, so we decided to try to... keep her.  We could take her memories, but not her sight, so we befriended her.  Helped around the house, her little faerie friend.  I saw the world change a hundred times over while I sat in that cottage, waiting.  Then at the end we moved her.  Into another.  Again and again.” 

“It didn't work?”

“It... did.  She was always the same.  Always different.  I watched her grow up, age, die. Sometimes I loved her.  Other times...”  He looked away.  “Others were cruel, like she soured from the inside out.”  

He shivered slightly, like he was trying to shrug off a touch.

“But this time she... cracked, somehow.  Her mind started to go, in the last ten years, and memories started to creep back in.  She got cruel, and petty, and I tried...”  He looked away.  “She didn't die,” he murmured. “She escaped, before the curse was done.  She knew we meant to trap her again, another hundred years in a new body, so she forced herself free, two years before the end.  There's a totem in the cellar, the ashes of all her bodies.  She put herself inside, locked it with iron.  Trapped between worlds, trapped in that house.” 

“Can she get out?”

“Yes.”  Nicky nodded.  “Tomorrow, when the sun sets.  Samhain night.  I was trying to find the key.  Thought I could destroy the totem before she had the chance.  Now...”  he shook his head. 

“There's still time.”

“She's getting stronger.”  Nicky touched the silver bracelet. 

“She was in the house the whole time?”  Mark shivered.  Remembered seeing shadows that weren't there, feeling cold draughts.  Two months.  Two months he'd been there, living with that...

“She was sleeping.  I was keeping watch, trying to find the key, and then you came. I was going to scare you off, but you were kind.”  Nicky almost blushed.  “It had been a long time since someone left me favours.”  He touched Mark's knee.  “And you were beautiful.  I'd been so alone for so long.  I just wanted it over, wanted to go back home, but you _shone_.”

“The night in the woods...” 

“I saw her.”  Nicky bit his lip.  “On the swing.  You walked right by her and she.. saw you.”  A cold tremble walked up Mark's back.  “I knew if I could get you to follow me into the woods...”

“You were trying to protect me.”

“Until morning.  She's strong at night.  During the day she sleeps.  Or she did.  She's getting stronger.” 

“You tried to lead me into the circle.”

“You wouldn't go,” Nicky snorted.  “So I led you around the woods until dawn.”  He fingered the bracelet carefully.  “I... loved you.  Already I loved you.  I kept watch at night, and then when she started to get stronger I... came to you.  Took you into me.”  He swallowed. “She needs blood when she's whole.  The blood of someone with the sight, the thing that makes you glow.  Your blood.”

“Why didn't you tell me to leave?”

“It was too late.  She would have found you, wherever you went.  If I kept you close, I could keep you safe.”

“You're telling me...”  Mark began to laugh.  It was just too absurd.  “All that sex was... was a spell?” He covered his mouth, snorting helplessly.  “You gave me a magic STD?”

“I shielded you.”  Nicky crossed his arms, looking offended.

“With what?  Faerie herpes?”  He couldn't stop laughing.  “Oh my god.”  He giggled.  “Did you even want to...?”

Nicky leaned in fast.  Before Mark knew it his lips were being parted, a tongue plunging inside.  He met it with a startled moan, felt fingers weave into his hair.  When they parted Nicky was red.  “I love you,” he growled.  Mark blinked back, startled by the ferocity of the kiss.  “You're mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mine,” Nicky repeated.  “My love.”  He kissed Mark again.  Mark stuttered into it, not sure whether to return it or not.

“You _lied_ to me.  You messed with my _head_.”

“To protect you.”

“Did you ask what _I_ wanted?  Maybe I could have helped.”

“No.” Nicky stood.  “You needed to stay safe.”  He touched the chain again. “I made a wish on the circle.  Silver, forged from starlight.  It takes energy to keep this form, especially in the light; energy I needed to protect you.  I couldn't do that as a wisp, couldn't do it as myself or you'd go mad.  If this comes to a fight...”  He breathed out slowly.  “She followed you into the woods.  You left a path.”

“The string...”

“I beat her.  I beat her for you, but you could have been killed.  Were almost killed.  You can't help, because you can't be near me, not when I'm like that.”  He caught Mark's hand.  “The chain will keep me in this form, but I can't fight like this.  I can see, and I can heal, and I can shield you, but that's all.  It took her time to find her way out of the woods, but she's back.  She's angry, and more powerful than you could ever understand.” 

“How powerful?”

“She'll raze this world to the ground,” Nicky said solemnly.  Mark's eyes widened.  “Then the next world, and the next, until her anger's run dry.”

“What if you can't beat her?”

Nicky stood, running fingers through his hair.

“Come on,” he said.  “We've a walk ahead of us.”

 

*

 

The key was heavy in Mark's pocket, solid iron.  Nicky walked on his other side, their feet tramping gently through the undergrowth, Nicky's footsteps almost silent.  He was exhausted.  Beyond tired. Fingers curled through his, tugging him on.

“I can't,” he said, as the woods started to lighten.  All night.  They'd been walking all night.  Nicky had made him turn his jacket inside out, said it would confuse her sight.  He was cold, skin wet and clammy.  The last day of October, and the morning sun shone off frost collecting on the undergrowth.  “I can't, Nicky.”

“Shh...”  They stopped.  Nicky held him close, murmuring softly into his ear.  He sagged, felt the aches and stiffness melt away, trickling from his limbs.

“Oh.”  He giggled in sudden euphoria, heard Nicky laugh in reply.  “Oh wow.”  He shook himself, refreshed.  “Thanks.”

“It won't last forever.  You'll sleep for a day once it wears off.”  Nicky smiled.  “Can you keep going?”

“Yes.”  He took a step as Nicky let go, the soreness gone from his feet.  He'd asked where they were going, but Nicky wouldn't say it out loud, just in case someone was listening.   It was mid-morning, the sun hovering over the forest, when the trees broke.

They were back at the lake, the house settled up the hill.  But where once it had been a sweet little cottage, the perfect retreat, Mark felt a shudder of dread.  The windows were black eyes, suddenly, the door a gaping mouth.  The porch swing was swaying in the breeze, ticking back and forth like a pendulum, as though someone was sat there, weighting it down.

“It has to be you,” Nicky said.  Mark wasn't sure what he was talking about, but then eyes flickered down, towards his pocket.  “I can't.”

“I...”  He peered up the hill.  “Is she there?  Can you see?”

“Sleeping.”  Nicky bit his lip.  “Gathering energy for tonight.”  He took Mark's hand.  “I'll keep watch.” 

“What am I looking for?”

“You'll know it when you see it.”  He peered up at the house.  “Come on.” 

The climb up the hill was slow.  They crept along the treeline, Nicky darting glances every now and then to the front porch.  If he could see anything, though, he didn't mention it.  Mark was glad.  He didn't want to know, not really.  Just wanted this over and done with.

The padlock was badly rusted.  He fitted the key quickly, heard the tumblers clank as he turned it. Then, just like that, it was open.  He pulled the wooden doors open, listening to them creak. 

The stairs were rotten and cracked.  Mark descended slowly, feeling his heart rise into his throat as he got lower, the shadows dark around him.  It was pitch, even the sunlight not making it inside.

“Nicky,” he whispered.  Nicky glanced down, pursed his lips, and then suddenly there was a speck of light, hanging in the middle of the room like a tiny star. 

It was a smallish room, an old shed, about the size of his bedroom.  Shelves lined the walls, gardening tools and pots of old paint.  Nothing that looked like a totem, though.  Everything was grimy with dust.

“You see it?”

“No.”  He bit his lip.  “No.”  He looked around.  “Maybe it's not here?” 

“It has to be...”  Nicky sighed, stepping down and peering into the dark.  “Where else could it be?” He took another step.

The door slammed shut.

They both yelped.  Nicky spun around, darted forward, but it was too late.  They heard the clank of the padlock, and suddenly Nicky was recoiling, shouting in pain.  Mark caught him, dragged him away, trying to put himself between Nicky and the door. 

He heard a cackle, something hard and chattering, metallic.

Then the light went out.


	8. Chapter 8

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” Nicky sighed.  “Wasn't your fault.  She...”  He buried his face in his hands, groaning.  He was glowing slightly.  It was really disconcerting, pale skin luminescent, like one of those fish that lived in the deep ocean, casting just enough light for Mark to realise how dark it was.  “I should have seen it coming.”

“It wasn't your fault.”  Mark coughed.  It was dusty in here, and he suspected there were spiders, wasn't sure if it was better or worse not being able to see them.  He'd put his hand in some web, earlier, could still feel the tack of it on his fingers, no matter how hard he'd scraped it off.  “What do we do now?”

“I don't know.”  Mark had tried to kick the door open, but it was too heavy, made to survive force, and Nicky certainly couldn't go near it.  Mark had managed to push it open a crack, but all he could see was grass along the space at the bottom, sky at the space at the top.  It was threatening rain, grey and blustery.  Not that it mattered in here.

Part of him hoped the cellar would flood, that they'd drown before the whole 'razing the earth' thing started. 

He wanted to call his parents, suddenly, his brothers.  His friends.  Kian, even.  Just to say that he loved them.  Just so they'd know, one last time.  That he hadn't meant to ignore them.  That while he'd been off finding himself he'd realised that what he really wanted was them.  Safe and happy. Wanted to hear their voices.

“How long until sunset?”

“Three hours.”  Nicky's hand fell into his.  Mark squeezed it.  They'd been in here ages.

“Can't you call for like... help, or something?  Other faeries, or?” 

Nicky shook his head.  “They've been... leaving.  Over the last few days.  It's Samhain tonight, the doorways will be open.  If she can't be stopped, they'll guard the doors.  Close them forever, if it comes to that.”

“They'll just leave us?  Leave the whole world to...?”

Nicky nodded.  He didn't look angered by that, or concerned, as though it all made sense.

“You were going to take me walking tonight,” Mark remembered suddenly. 

I was.”  Nicky snorted.  “I'd run out of time, thought maybe I could...”  His eyes softened. “Come with me,” he said.  “Come through the circle, before it closes.  Eat our bread, drink our wine.  Become...” He touched Mark's cheek.  “You'll never grow old, never die.  You and I, we could be together. Forever.”

“Forever?”  He bit his lip.  “What about my family?” 

“What about them?”

“Could they come, or?”  Nicky was looking at him in askance.  “No?”

“You don't need family.  You'll have me.”

 “I still love them,” Mark argued.

“Time's different there.  A day is a hundred years.  You'll forget.  It won't matter.” 

“It matters to me.”  He was angry, suddenly.  “You really don't care about anyone else, do you? Everything's about you.”

“I care about you.”

“No, you _want_ me.  Like I'm property,” Mark shot back.  “You erased my memory, you scared away someone who was actually turning out to be a pretty good friend, and why?  Because you got jealous?  You never asked what I wanted.  You just assumed you knew better.” 

“I do know better.”

“What, because you're magic?”  Mark rolled his eyes.  “There's lots of things you don't know, just because you think they're too stupid to know about.  I read about you, you know.  Your... folk.  Taking kids away and burning down buildings and all sorts?  Why?  Because you're petty and pissed off?  Get over yourself.  Sometimes you don't get everything you want.” 

“Why not?”

“Because sometimes what someone else wants is more important.”  Nicky was looking confused. “You love me, right?  You protect me?”  Nicky nodded, shrugging.  “Right, now what if I told you that I never want to see you again?  What if I told you to fuck off and leave me alone, that I've had enough of this shit.  Or that... I'm in love with someone else, someone who isn't you?  That it would make me happy to be with them instead?” 

“Who is it?”  Nicky's voice was low, suddenly dangerous in a way it hadn't been before.  Mark pulled away slightly.

“It's hypothetical.”  He shook his head.  “You broke all of Bryan's plates, until I told you there was nothing going on.  Then you... what?  Put them back?  Just because you fix something, it doesn't mean you didn't break it in the first place.  Sometimes things just stay broken.  Sometimes it's right for them to be broken, because then you learn not to break them next time.”  He stuttered to a halt, heart pounding.  “You don't love me.  You don't understand what love is.” 

“I love you.”

“Then ask me what I want.  For once.  Ask my permission, before you mess with my head.  You didn't even know me, you just decided you were in love with me.  Because I left some snacks, and I've got this... this glow thing.”  He snorted.  “It's not a relationship, you always getting your own way.  Sometimes it's messy, and sometimes you're not going to like everything about the other person.  It doesn't mean you're allowed to change it to suit yourself.  I'm not going to follow you around for all eternity because we had some pretty good sex and you brainwashed me.”

“It's called a thrall, and I chose this form for you.  I knew you'd find it pleasing.” 

“That's very flattering.  Thanks.”  He went to the door, pushed it gently.  It was still light, but getting dusky.  “Now what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like... who does the dishes?  Do we have to get a mortgage in your faerie kingdom, or should we look at renting?  What are your parents like?  Are they okay with you dating a human?  What am I going to do for a job?  Am I allowed to have a job, or am I just going to float around all day, drinking nectar and staring at the sky?  Do they have TV there?  Because tennis season's really heating up, and I was hoping to catch a couple of matches.” 

“Those things don't matter.  In our realm...”

“They don't matter to _you_.”  He saw Nicky's eyes widen in anger.  “You've been here hundreds of years, right?  So, what did you do?  Did you just sit there watching some woman?  You've been in the world, Nicky.  There was nothing you liked?  Nothing you wished you could have in your own world, but never will?  You were never disappointed?  You never got a sense of humour that wasn't about messing with other people?  You never liked something, even though it was silly?” 

“I...”  Nicky pursed his lips.  He looked shy, suddenly.  “I liked the music,” he said finally.  “It's always the same, at home, but here...”  A smirk drifted over his mouth.  “There are so many different _kinds_ , and they're so different, new songs coming out all the time.”

“What's your favourite song?  You've been here a hundred years, you must have heard a few.” 

“Erm...”  He hesitated, cheeks glowing slightly pinker than the rest of him.  “There was this song, about twenty years ago.  Mr Vain.  I listened to that song over and over...”  Mark was already starting to laugh.

“Really?  Mr Vain?”

“I liked it,” Nicky said defensively.  “I could kill you where you stand, you know.”

“Are you going to?” 

“No.”  Nicky was sulking, now.  It was adorable.

“Why not?  I thought that was what you all did, swift vengeance for little slights, retribution sort of thing.”

“Yeah.  Well...”  Nicky shrugged.  “Maybe... that was all a bit over-the-top.”  He pouted.  “I could forgive you.”

“I'm not asking for it.  I didn't do anything wrong.”

“I liked you better when you were enthralled,” Nicky muttered.  Mark giggled, nudging him gently until Nicky let out a laugh of his own, his eyes bright and wary.

  

*

 

Mark was dozing against Nicky's side when he heard the crunch of a car pulling into the drive.

They were both roused in moments, Mark pushing at the cellar door.  He couldn't see anything, though.  Just the sky, getting darker as the night closed in, damp grass speckled with raindrops.  He shoved on the door, trying to rattle the lock, trying to warn whoever it was...

Someone knocked on the front door.  Knocked again.

“Mark?” 

“Kian?” He blinked in surprise.  Kian.  What was Kian doing here?  He shoved harder on the cellar door.  “Kian!”  Footsteps crunched over wet ground.  “Kian!  In here!”

“Mark?”  His voice was close.  Mark felt a sag of relief.  He was sure he'd never hear that voice again, and a few months back he hadn't wanted to.  Now he was about to burst into tears because his ex-boyfriend had shown up unannounced.

“What are you doing here?” 

“I was worried.  You sounded weird and you hadn't answered your phone...”  He trailed off.  “Why are you in the cellar?”

“That doesn't...”  He could see shoes.  “How dark is it?” 

“Erm... not that bad.”  He still sounded confused.  “Still about twenty minutes til sunset, though with the storm coming in it's hard to tell.”

“Okay.”  Mark fished in his pocket.  “You need to be quick.  Get the lock open.”  He shoved the key through the gap underneath the door.  “And if you see a shadow that looks weird, even a little bit, you run.  You drive away and don't come back.”

“What are you talking about?”  He picked the key up, though.  Mark heard the clunk of the lock. There was a sullen creak as the door was lifted open.  Nicky was on his feet already, pushing past Mark and out of the cellar.  Kian stared at him, then at Mark, absently handing him the padlock.  Mark shoved it into his pocket, out of the way. 

“This is Nicky,” he explained.  “Get in the car, we'll be there in a minute.”  He shoved Kian, got an indignant squawk in reply.  “Go!”  Kian stared at him for a moment, then went, grumbling as he trudged back across the grass.  “Where's the totem?”

“I don't know.”  Nicky bit his lip.  “If it's not there, then...”  He turned a circle.  “Wait...”  He dashed back down into the cellar.  He fell to his hands and knees, began to pry up the edge of a board.  It came loose with a damp, decaying crack.  He began to pull up the one next to it.  “It's not in the cellar...”

“It's under it,” Mark finished.  “Holy shit.”  He looked over his shoulder.  Kian was loitering nearby, looking confused and annoyed.  Nicky was scooping out handfuls of earth, looked like a man possessed.  Kian was ambling back over, looking like he wanted to say something.  Mark suspected now was not the time.

The shadows moved. 

“Nicky!” he called.  Nicky looked up.  The shadow lengthened, the porch swing twisting in a sudden breeze.  “Kian, stop.  Don't...”  Scribbled fingers reached out, grasping for his leg.  They seemed to have form, suddenly, stretching off the grass, so black they were negative space against the darkening sky, devoid of light.

“What's going on?”

“I...”  Kian couldn't see them.  Fingers knotting behind him, scrambling over the ground.  It reached.

 Mark grabbed his arm, yanked him forward and into the cellar.  Nicky looked up in surprise.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered, wrapping around Kian.  With the other hand he reached out, yanking off the bracelet. 

It was a blast, this time, too loud to even hear.  He heard his ears pop, and then the fallout.  The tremor of the whole world shifting underneath them, impossible energy bursting out at once.  He heard Kian scream, and forced a hand over his ex-boyfriend's face, turning them both towards the wall, trying to shield him, his own eyes closed as he leaned his face into the corner, feeling like there was a balloon swelling in his head, trying to pop.

“Stay there,” he shouted.  Turned away, groping blindly across the floor.  Nicky was out.  He could hear the awful chattering, the terrible hum, the clash of energy.  Thunder rumbled, close to the ground, and he flinched as all his hair began to stand on end, prickling away from his arms and legs.  He could taste the copper tang of blood, feel it dripping from his nose and ears, but he started to dig anyway, feeling for soft earth, feeling for something else in it.  Not daring to open his eyes.  Not now.

Everything went abruptly silent.  Mark paused.  He could hear Kian sobbing, hysterical.

Sunset. 

He dug, groped.  Felt his fingers touch something.  The silence stretched, and he could hear it, the creak and scrape of claws, clambering slowly down the cellar stairs.  Too late.  Far too late.

He opened his eyes.  An earthen pot.  Brown, no taller than his forearm.  It was shivering, trembling as he pulled it out of the ground.  There was chattering in his ear.  He closed his eyes again, steadying it with one hand.

“Open your eyes,” it rasped.

 “No,” he growled, “I already see you.”

He brought the padlock down hard. 

It was cold, like plunging his hands into liquid nitrogen.  Colder than cold could possibly be, the blackness of nothing, of pure anger and hatred.  He heard the pot crack, felt it split, then crumble, as he ground the iron weight down into it.  Lifted it with both hands, then slammed it down again, listening to the smash of ancient clay.  Again, then again, while it shrieked and threatened, screamed curses and profanity.  He didn't stop.  Didn't stop until a hand settled carefully on his shoulder.

“Mark.”  Kian wrapped around him.  “It's done, love.  It's...”  Mark sobbed, blood caught in his nose and running down his throat as he opened his eyes, blinked into the darkness.  He fell into Kian's arms, felt them wrap around him, and when he looked up Kian was dazed, blood dripping from his left ear, his right eye almost swollen shut.

Ashes scattered the floor amongst broken shards of clay, mixing in with the earth.  He kicked everything back into the hole, dropped the padlock in, and covered it over. They clambered out of the cellar.

The garden was full of stars.

He blinked.  An army of them, hovering careful over the lawn and down the hill, watchful procession.  And next to the porch, Nicky, still and pale. 

“No...” he whispered.  The bracelet was back on, clasped around his wrist.  Mark fell to his knees. “Nicky?”  He shook him gently.  “Nicky.”  He sobbed.  A wisp floated past, hovering over the prostrate body.  “Nicky, no.”  He shivered in the night air, then shuddered, felt himself fall apart. “Nicky...”  He gulped.  “Until the last,” he promised.  “I'll stay with you until the last.”

Blue eyes cracked open.

“Hello,” he croaked.  “Are you safe?”

“I'm fine.  I'm...”  He laughed, hysterical.  “Are you?” 

“Is he safe?  The one who loves you?”

“Yes.”  Mark nodded.  “He's safe.”

 He turned to look at Kian.  A wisp flashed past him, and when it moved on Mark saw his eye had healed.  He touched his own nose.  Dry.  When he looked back, Nicky had gone.

 

* 

 

Mark locked the door carefully  He had another three weeks on the lease, but didn't see the point. Not after everything.  Kian was at the car, putting the last of the boxes in the back. 

Mark suspected he had a lot of explaining to do.  Not now, though.  Not yet.  Not until they were far enough away.

He left a bowl on the doorstep.  Nicky's favourites.  Dried apricots and honey, a glass of cold milk, a handful of grapes, and a wedge of cheese.  He left a sprig of cowslip on top.  He'd picked it that morning, unable to believe they were still blooming this late in the year.  When he slid into the passenger seat Kian was watching him carefully.

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah.”  He looked out over the hills, at the lake, reflecting the midday sun.  At the woods, tangled and alive, shifting endlessly.

Kian pulled the car out and dropped it into drive, headed for home.

 

*

 

It had taken all day to get back.  He'd told the story in the car, as much as he could remember of it. It was fading already, becoming unreal in his head.  Kian had laughed, and by the time Mark was done he wasn't sure it had happened.  That it hadn't been a particularly vivid dream. Now he was having trouble remembering at all, though dreams were like that.  He suspected by tomorrow it would just be replaced with the next one, maybe the weird nightmare where his teeth all fell out and he was naked at school.

He slept for almost twenty-four hours.  He was back in their old spare bedroom, until he could find his own place.  He appreciated the offer.  He thought maybe he was happy to be back, that maybe they'd given up to soon, even just on their friendship.  They'd always well worked together, anyway.  Maybe this was just what they'd needed, some time apart to get their heads straight.

By the next evening he was sat in his room, having a quick listen to some of the music he'd recorded.  Some of it was better than others, and he wrinkled his nose at one or two tracks, maudlin and soppy things, wondering what odd mood he'd been in when he'd written those.  One was quite good, an upbeat tune with downbeat lyrics, and he made a note to work on that one later.

The last file was small, barely a minute long. 

It was titled _Sweetling_.

He hit play.

It wasn't him.  Something from his music folder that had gotten mixed up in this one by mistake, maybe.  He didn't recognise the tune, but at the same time he did, soft and sweet, almost like a lullaby.

It was pretty.

He went downstairs to have dinner, found Kian unpacking a bag of chinese takeaway.  The song was still drifting in his head, picking at the back of his mind. 

By the time they got to dessert he'd almost forgotten how it had gone.

 

 *

 

 The air was still.  Clean, for the first time in a long time.  A wisp dashed across the water, leaving hardly a ripple in it's wake.

It started to rain, and on the doorstep of the little cottage set into the hills, droplets started to collect on an empty plate, washing away the last of a smear of honey.


End file.
